


In This Moment

by mulbr



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, fluffiest fic you will ever get from me, graphic birth description possible, hermione and tom born in the same timeline, pregnancy fic, short fic, tomione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-10 07:37:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15944762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mulbr/pseuds/mulbr
Summary: Who knew how much a small little creature, such as a baby, could change your life in the blink of an eye? TRJ/HG. Post Hogwarts AU. Tom is born the year before Hermione in this story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was just a plot bunny that appeared in my head because I love Tomione with pregnant!Hermione. Don't ask why, I just do. This is a Post-Hogwarts AU in which Tom is born the year before Hermione. Anyways, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also, while we are here. I am NOT JK Rowling. These are not my characters, and this is not my universe. I do not own any part of Harry Potter. Nothing.

**In This Moment**

_"Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation." ― Kahlil Gibran_

* * *

 

**Chapter One**

Telling her boyfriend that she was pregnant was probably the most terrifying prospect Hermione had ever faced in her life.

She wasn't afraid of him, mind you. No, not really. He would never dream of laying a finger on her. Not to hurt her. She knew, because the one time she'd muttered 'ouch' too loudly during a particularly rough romp as he'd fisted his hand in her hair, he froze and unwound his hand from her curly hair. Their session had ended then, and she'd been properly cross with him. He didn't understand her anger and believed it to be completely unwarranted. She told him that she appreciated his concern, but he could've simply let go of her hair or ask if she wanted to stop instead of ending it and leaving her there alone. He'd reluctantly apologized, albeit in his own way rather than actually saying sorry.

No, she was terrified because she was almost positive that having a child was on the very top of his list of things he would  _never_ do.

He had plans, he'd told her. He told her that the night he'd asked her to be his girlfriend.

" _I have no intentions of catching you off guard,"_ he'd said.  _"I have plans, plans that will ensure our life is anything but mundane."_

She'd simply giggled at him at the time, telling him that she didn't expect anything about them, or their relationship for that matter, to be mundane.

But when she found out that his plan included finding a way to his own immortality, her entire perception of him had changed. Instead of seeing the kindness when he spoke to people in public, she saw well concealed manipulation. Instead of seeing irritation when someone annoyed him, she saw a glint of bloodlust in his eyes. Instead of seeing affection in his eyes when he looked at her, she saw unadulterated obsession.

She found herself questioning how she could've been so utterly stupid. How could she stay with him? Knowing what he was doing, what he was planning? Especially after she'd found the book on horcruxes lazily thrown into his bag while he was showering one day.

She'd sat on their bed, intending to talk to him about it. But the stony, icy look he'd thrown her when he emerged from the bathroom in nothing but one of his emerald green towels stopped her. She knew that he knew that she'd seen the book.

After that, she'd intended on finding a way out of the relationship before it became anything more serious. She didn't want to get caught up in this mess. She knew how people changed once they started severing their soul. Killing people to gain their own immortality.

But then,  _this. This_ changed everything.

She'd contemplated running, and not telling him. But she knew he'd come looking for her and that wouldn't end well. Aside from that, she was a Gryffindor, for Merlin's sake! She wasn't going to run from anyone. Altogether, it just wasn't a logical approach.

She'd toyed with the idea of abortion for the first two weeks after she'd found out. But she couldn't. She'd grown attached to it—her child, over the past three weeks after finding out she was pregnant. She wanted this baby. She didn't think  _he_ wanted this baby, but she did. And she was carrying it, so her wishes would be carried out in that regard, literally.

Finally, she'd gone back to the idea of finding any reason, any at all, to leave the relationship. If she ended it for a reason, especially the horcrux bit, he'd have to accept it. At first, at least. She might even be able to get away with not giving a reason, depending on his reaction to the split, but that wasn't logical either. He may see her as an enemy after that, hunt her down. She knew he wouldn't hurt her now, but… she'd seen what Tom did to his enemies.

He hated Draco Malfoy. They were out in Diagon Alley, book shopping. Draco had begun harassing them, her specifically, and called her a mudblood. Tom's eyes had flashed angrily, but he had said nothing. He had no need to threaten.

He was efficient enough in his vengeance that threats weren't necessary.

So, she was entirely unsurprised when she'd found out that Draco would miss work shortly after the incident, ill with muggle shingles. She wasn't suspicious initially until she'd found out that the illness couldn't be cured with magic. It had been modified, somehow.

She knew who'd done it immediately, and instead of feeling angry like she knew she should've, she felt amused.

Draco never ventured out into the muggle world, so it was unlikely that he was ever exposed to muggle chicken pox.

Of course, it was vindictive and maybe a little childish, but she knew Tom was one that thought the punishment should fit the offense. Draco had called her a mudblood. Tom knew how much Draco hated muggles and muggleborns, and Tom also knew that the medical community within wizarding society was unfamiliar with the illness, so Draco would be forced to see a muggle doctor for treatment. It was, altogether, genius. Simple, but genius.

He'd somehow given him  _muggle_ shingles that magic couldn't cure, just had to run its course with muggle treatments.

She didn't feel bad, not really. Not about that, at least. Draco deserved  _much_ worse, but it was enough for now.

But,  _leaving_ him… that would put her on the top of his hitlist, and he would deign that she received the highest punishment for what he would see as blatant betrayal. She didn't have any desire to find out what that punishment would be, so, she'd decided against that, too.

That left one option for her.  _Tell him._ Tell him, and hope for the best. He couldn't really blame her for leaving if he reacted negatively, so she couldn't see him justifying a 'punishment' for it.

And so, as she sat on their bed, fingers twitching, she contemplated how, exactly, she would tell him. He would be home from work soon. His job at Borgin & Burkes had him out late sometimes, but he'd assured her he'd be home at a decent hour tonight. She had never understood why he'd taken this job instead of one of the many Ministry jobs offered to him. When she'd asked, he told her it served a purpose.

Suddenly, her ears registered the sound of the front door being unlocked. She subconsciously curled inward on herself, her cream-colored pajama pants riding up past her ankles. She was terrified. She knew he wouldn't hurt her, not physically, at least, but the fact that she had absolutely no idea what he would do horrified her.  _No._ she thought, shaking herself out of her terror.  _You mustn't be frightened. He won't hurt you, not now. Just tell him, Hermione. Just tell him._

"Tell me what? Talking to yourself now, love?" the velvety voice of her boyfriend swirled around her, enveloping her. She took a deep shuddered breath when she realized she'd been thinking out loud. She couldn't help herself as tears began to stream down her rosy cheeks.

"Hermione, love? What's wrong?" His voice sounded worried—genuinely worried, not that crap he fed to everyone else. The faint sound of his work bag dropping to the ground seemed to echo around her forever as he sat beside her, wrapping his arms around her shaking shoulders.

"Tom," her voice was barely a whisper, and she felt one of his warm hands slip around her face to cup her damp cheek.

"What is it? Are you hurt?"

At this, she laughed. Her laughter sounded terribly manic as it echoed between the walls of their bedroom, and when she opened her eyes to wipe her cheeks of the tears her laughter had created, she saw an expression she'd never seen on Tom's handsome face.

Fear.

Maybe he already knew. Maybe he'd had an inclination, but ignored it, hoping he was wrong. Maybe he knew. Maybe he was waiting for her to confirm her menstrual sometime soon. Or maybe he was just scared at the idea of there being something so terribly wrong with her that she was trembling one minute and laughing like mad the next. She didn't know, but she would find out soon enough, she supposed.

"I have something I need to talk to you about." Her voice was still quiet, but not nearly as frightened as it was before. She found her determination and decided that no matter his reaction, she'd have to face it. She had no choice. She couldn't  _not_ tell him.

"Anything, love. What's—"

She interrupted him before she lost her nerve. "I'm pregnant."

His hand, which had been stroking her cheek affectionately, froze. His eyes widened slightly, but otherwise, he didn't move. His eyes were stony again, boring into hers as if waiting for her to tell the punchline to the joke.

After a few moments of her boyfriend sitting beside her like a statue, she started to get nervous. Was he in shock? Was he—

"No, I'm not in shock." His mouth moved quickly, and the expression on his face changed. His hand dropped from her cheek as he stood to his feet. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registered the fact that she had to have been thinking out loud again. She needed to curb that habit, especially before the baby came. She couldn't be spewing profanities at the idiocy of people when the baby—

"I just…" his words broke her out of her thoughts, then. "I—I didn't plan for this, Hermione. I never planned on having children. I thought that you were on a pill, or a potion or something. What—how could this have happened?" he had begun pacing the room, and she found herself rather irritated with his response.

"I was—on a potion, I mean. I think we—"

"Wait." He held a hand out to stop her. "We—you're sure?"

"Sure of what?"

"That you're pregnant."

"Obviously." She snapped, standing to her feet as well. She was growing tired of this charade. If he didn't believe her, she'd show him. Quickly, she snatched her wand off of the nightstand beside her. He watched her intently, and she performed a diagnostics spell. Her vitals were written neatly in the air, along with several other important health bits.

At the bottom of it all, 'Diagnostics confirm that patient is 10 weeks pregnant.'

"You've kept this from me for  _ten weeks?"_ He hissed at her, crossing the small bit of distance between the two.

"I didn't know I was pregnant until a few weeks ago!"

"So you've kept it from me for three weeks. Well, that's much better!" he sneered at her, words laced with sarcasm. She felt herself growing ill at ease. The corner of her eyes scrunched up, her lip trembled. Tom's hard eyes softened a bit, and he went to reach for her arm. "Hermione—"

She slapped his hand away.

"No!" she pushed at his chest, trying to create more distance between them. "NO! I will not stand here and be interrogated about this by you! You're—" she stopped, looking around the room, searching for something.

In the corner of their room by the full-length mirror, she found it. Her beaded bag.

"I'm leaving." Her voice was cold and cut him like a knife.

"Hermione, listen to me!"

"I've heard enough." She tried to get around him to get to her beaded bag, but his hand caught her wrist. She tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let her. "Hermione—"

"Let me GO!" she yelled, using her free hand to hit him in the chest. He caught that arm too, crouching a bit to look in her eyes. There was a pleading look there. "Hermione—"

And suddenly she was pressing herself into his chest, sobbing uncontrollably. As uncomfortable as this was for Tom, this didn't happen with Hermione— _never_ happened, in fact. He'd never seen her cry from anything other than laughter in the ten months they'd been dating and living together. He didn't like it, and he would do whatever it took to put a stop to it.

He awkwardly patted her back as he led her back to the bed, beckoning for her to sit. Her sobs softened but did not stop. He sighed heavily, grabbing her by her shoulders.

"Hermione, look at me."

She cast her eyes downward.

"Look at me, Hermione, please."

She didn't respond.

"Hermione, look at me!"

Finally, she looked. Her amber brown eyes bore into his, a sort of sadness there that he didn't quite understand.

"Hermione… this is quite a, uhm—a rather unexpected development, But…" he bit his lip, not sure of how to go on. "I can assure you, I will be there for you. And him, or her, too. I am not the most… loving, and I don't know if I can ever offer that to either of you. But I can offer my protection, my time and my effort. To both of you." He didn't know why but he was suddenly breathing heavily. Maybe it was the rush of unexpected emotions, he wasn't sure.

Surprisingly enough to him, the sadness in her eyes only deepened.

"Tom," she said slowly, clutching at her stomach in a rather protective manner. Protective—protective, what did she need to protect it from? It—the baby, the baby was his. The baby didn't need protecting from  _him_. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion, a rather uncharacteristic show of raw emotion. Why was she—

"You can't just…" she stopped for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip nervously as if flickering through phrases and words and letters to decide how to remedy this moment. But he knew. He knew what she was about to say. Somehow, he just knew.

"This baby needs love."

The words hung in the air, uncomfortable silence between them creating an odd sort of tension.

He didn't—

He  _couldn't—_

Love was a weakness. Love would keep him from seeking power. He could get away with not expressing love towards Hermione—she was an adult, capable of choosing whether he was or wasn't in her life. He probably wouldn't have accepted no for an answer, of course, but…

But this was different.

This child… their child was innocent. Their child deserved  _more._ More than he'd had growing up. This child deserved love.

 

But Tom could not give this child the love that he or she so desperately needed from his or her father. The love that Tom had desperately needed from  _his_  father.

He—

He just couldn't.

It would mean choosing love over power, and he was not ready to accept that fate.

Wasn't it loving to want to give the child, and all of the other children around the world, a better life? Wasn't that a form of love? He'd heard parents during their graduation at Hogwarts, telling their children that they wanted  _better_ for them than what they had, because they loved them.

So wasn't this… would she see this as—

"Tom," she said suddenly, breaking him out of his thoughts. Oh no. She had that look on her face. That look that told him that she was about to do something she didn't want to do. He'd seen it when he told her he was going to introduce her to his friends (Friends? Yea, right), albeit a much less serious version of this look. A more annoyed version.

No, this look was protective, but not of him and not of herself. Just like her hands wrapped around her still flat stomach. Protecting his child from  _him._

"Tom," it was soft, almost as if she was testing his name on her tongue. Except, she wasn't. It was like she wanted to remember what it sounded like.

She shook her head slowly, tears reforming in her eyes.

Something in his stomach clenched uncomfortably. He couldn't be sure what it was.

"We can't. If you—if you can't love this baby, then…" she trailed off. Maybe she didn't want to face the reality of it either.

Whatever his stomach was clenching, dropped. Whatever it was, it dropped from his stomach even lower, causing the oddest sort of pain he'd ever felt.

It didn't physically hurt, no. But he knew it was the worst pain he'd ever felt, and it made him angry. How could she bring him pain, without touching him? Without waving her wand, or her hand for that matter, at him? What kind of power did she have over him?

He held onto that anger. He needed to use it. He needed to use that anger, the rage he felt at the rejection he was feeling. He needed it.

Tom's eyes had turned steely then, regaining an icy quality that Hermione hadn't seen in a while. She should've been taken aback, shocked, but she wasn't. And that made the tears well up at an even quicker rate, her lip quivering. She raised her hand to wipe them away, but it was futile. They were demanding to be released—the tears. She didn't want to make this harder than it already was, but—

His hands suddenly dropped away from her. He stood again. "It appears that you have finally chosen something else over me." His voice was hard and angry, but in that moment, she didn't care. How  _dare_ he make this about  _him?_

But of course! Why was she surprised? Everything, everything was always about him. Tom, Tom, Tom. The hand that had wiped her tears away was now balled into a fist at her side as she grit her teeth and growled out, "Don't you  _dare._ Don't you dare make this about you!" she stood suddenly, fury evident on her face.

"Who else is it about, Hermione? We could—" he gestured wildly at her stomach, "we could just—"

"What, Tom?" her voice was getting louder now. "Get rid of it, like you do with everything else that you don't like or creates an inconvenience for you?"

"Precisely."

Surprised at the bluntness of his words, Hermione's mouth fell agape.

It was silent again as she tried to strengthen her resolve. She needed to leave.  _Now,_ before he decided that he wanted to get rid of her, too.

She stormed past him, grabbing her beaded bag off of the dresser beside the mirror.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, the repercussions of his words hitting him like a ton of bricks.

"I'm leaving!" she announced, gathering a few things off of the top of the dresser and putting them in her bag. He stood there, shocked. But isn't this what he wanted? He couldn't have a child. He could  _never_ be a father—not a good one at least. No, if she was keeping it, this was for the best. This was for the best. He kept telling himself that as he watched her pack a few things she likely considered essentials. He kept telling himself that as he watched the best thing that ever happened to him leave him. He kept telling himself that power was more important.

If only he truly believed it.

"I'll be by in a few days to collect the rest of my things." Her voice was breaking as she spoke, and he knew she was still crying. He had never seen her cry before, but he decided he didn't like it. His hand was outstretched of its own accord, but she didn't seem to notice. If she did, she didn't care, and he didn't suppose that she should. He watched her in a daze, following her out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. He wanted to stop her, but she was just moving too quickly and his mind was moving too slowly. How could he make this better? He couldn't. She wanted him to accept this, but he couldn't. He couldn't give this child what it needed. She could, but he couldn't. She opened their potions cabinet and took a few things, things that she'd bought or brewed herself.

His eyes were stinging as he watched her slow down as she turned the knob on the front door. Why were his eyes stinging? What—

She turned to face him, her eyes red and puffy, tears still streaming steadily down her face. He knew that his face was a mixture of emotions. He hadn't bothered to try to conceal them. Her voice was low and sad, laced with a hint of regret as she murmured, "Don't worry, Tom. We won't stop you from getting what you want. You'll never hear from me again."

She slammed the door shut behind her.

He didn't know how long he'd stood there. By the time he moved, his legs were cramping in protest. He didn't care. He needed a shower. He needed to  _think._

He slowly made his way to the bathroom, contemplating how he could make this better. She wouldn't really leave him, would she?

Of course she would. She was keeping the baby, that much was clear. And if he wasn't willing to participate—

He froze as he took his reflection in, all thoughts coming to a halt.

He touched the spot right under his eye in disbelief, disgust lingering underneath the flurry of emotions he was feeling.

His eyes were just as red rimmed and puffy as Hermione's were.

His face was damp.

He'd been crying.

 _Him._ Tom Marvolo Riddle.  _Crying_ , and what made it worse, over a girl. A girl and her baby. A girl and  _their_ baby. A girl and  _his_ baby.

He stood there confused, dumbstruck, angry.

This wasn't what he'd intended. He didn't mean for this to happen. He didn't mean to get her pregnant.

And she'd left him for it.

 _No,_ a small voice in the back of his head told him,  _she didn't leave because you got her pregnant. She left because you want power. Power over everything._

 

He scoffed at the voice.  _Of course. I have been striving for power for the last 20 years of my life. A baby would ruin it all._

 

 _Perhaps,_ the voice replied,  _but this makes you no better than your father._

 

Tom's face changed instantaneously, a sneer forming on his lips. "I am NOTHING like my father!" he bellowed, his wand in his hand as he sent a  _reducto_ curse straight at the mirror. It crashed into the mirror, glass flying everywhere. He was panting heavily—not due to his use of magic, he wasn't weak. No, it was his anger. The stupid, annoying voice that sounded much like the witch who'd just left his flat.

The feeling of something wet running down his forearm drew him out of his trance. He looked down, unsurprised to see a piece of glass sticking out of his forearm. Blood dripped from his arm to the creamy white rug he stood on. He watched for a moment, the ache from having a foreign object stuck in some part of his body peaking his curiosity.

Carefully, he removed the glass. As he mended his arm, he numbly wondered why the physical pain, the  _real_ pain, was nothing compared to the ache he felt in his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

**In This Moment**

_"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that." - Martin Luther King Jr_ _._

* * *

 

 

**Chapter Two**

Three months.

Three months since she'd left, and he still hadn't spoken to her.

He didn't plan to, not in person.

He'd sent letters. He told her he would financially support the child, of course. He was evil, but he wasn't  _that_ evil. As much as he hated to admit it now, Tom did care for Hermione, and he wouldn't leave her completely helpless.

He had no idea where she lived now, so he'd sent an owl to her job. It irritated him that none of her friends would reveal her location.

He'd begrudgingly spoken to Harry Potter, asking to meet him at the Leaky Cauldron. He knew that he wouldn't find out where she was from him—not without the use of force, of course, but he'd thought he could probably get Potter to tell him if she'd been reading his letters and what all she'd told them. He didn't think Hermione would tell them—or anyone, for that matter, about his plans, or the book she'd seen about horcruxes in his bag. She was smart enough to keep that information to herself. If she'd told someone, they might go to the authorities to report unauthorized use of dark magic, and although he couldn't exactly go to Azkaban for creating a horcrux without explicit proof that he'd killed someone, the Aurors would start watching him.

He couldn't have that.

So, when he'd arrived at the Leaky Cauldron and spoke to Potter, who'd nervously told him, "She doesn't want to see you, Tom." He knew Potter wasn't nervous because of him—no, Potter was a bold Gryffindor who'd never cowered in fear to anyone. He didn't like Potter, but he could respect that much about him. He deduced that Potter was nervous because of Hermione, likely considering what kind of hex she'd use against him had he told Tom her whereabouts. "It's probably best just to let her simmer down, Tom. From what I heard—"

"I don't care what you heard, Potter!" he all but hissed, "She… caught me off guard. I didn't mean to—" He stopped, not willing to delve into the details with Potter. Potter didn't need to be in his business, though he was almost positive that Hermione had already told him what happened.

Potter's eyes hardened in response. "Listen, Tom. She doesn't want to see you or hear from you. No one can stop you from owling her, but if you go anywhere near her without her explicit permission—"

Tom stepped forward, then, leaving maybe a foot of space between himself and the messy haired, bespectacled man. "Then  _what,_ Potter?"

Before Potter could respond, the bartender spoke up. "Ay' gentl'man. Everything all righ' over here?"

Simultaneously, they looked to the bartender and said, "Yes."

The bartender looked a bit suspicious, muttering something about bar fights and from now on, he would just call the Aurors and let them handle it.

Potter stepped away from Tom, a burning intensity in his eyes. "Tom, I know it's hard to be told no, especially when it's you, but she's right." He took a swig of his butterbeer before he continued, "Children need love to grow properly. I've got one and another on the way, so trust me on that." He dropped the empty butterbeer in a trash can, looking back to Tom. He was eyeing him in an almost pitiful way, but he shook his head as if he were trying to shake the feeling away. "You know, I—I can't imagine what it would've been like to grow up without my parents. I sympathize with you on that, much as I don't want to. Can't help that, but  _you_ can do better for your own kid, and you should." Tom should've been angered by his words, but he found that he wasn't. Had it come from one of his friends, his  _followers,_ he probably would've Crucio'd them on the spot. But Potter… Potter, despite everything, was only trying to help him. Tom didn't need help normally. But—but Hermione—

He hadn't realized, initially, how much he would miss her presence. He'd never had a girlfriend before her, even at Hogwarts, but he imagined that if he had, no mediocre, daft girl could've compared to Hermione. None of them.

So, Tom had stood there, staring at the man in front of him blankly. He barely heard Potter bid him goodbye, with a promise that he'd talk to her and see if she'd meet him. He was too caught up in his own thoughts, now.

He never wanted to have offspring for this exact reason. It wasn't something he planned for, in fact, it was something he explicitly planned to _never_ do. He wasn't a nice person, you could call him cruel, even—but he wasn't cruel enough to purposely bring a child into the world and then leave them. He just didn't want to be weakened by love, and he knew that that was what the child needed. Even if she'd stayed, even if he'd lied and said he would love the child and Hermione had, by some chance, believed him (she always seemed to know when he was lying, and he didn't understand how), the child would know. Probably not immediately, of course, but the child would be able to tell the stark difference between his or her relationship with his or her mother and father. Hermione, he knew, would be loving. She would be—

She would be everything he wished for when he was still a young boy in the orphanage.

She would be everything his mother should have been, and for some reason, that angered him—

His brow furrowed. No, he wasn't angry… it was some other emotion, he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Jealously.

He was jealous that this child, his child, would have better than he had. Wasn't parental instinct to want that for your child, though? Even more proof to him that he didn't need to be in the child's life.

So, after he'd met Potter, he'd sat there in a daze, simply thinking on his life and how he could possibly fit a child into his plans.

He couldn't come up with a logical plan—a logical way to integrate a child. Simply put, a child didn't belong in his plans.

The ache—the one he'd felt in his chest several times since Hermione had left, it was back.

He cursed himself for being weak in that regard, that he could feel such a useless emotion. That he couldn't control it.

So, he ordered himself some firewhiskey, and he drank his first glass in a couple of gulps.

He intended to burn—burn the ache away. He still wasn't sure what, exactly, the emotion was, but he knew he didn't like it. It made his chest hurt, but not in a physical way.

He continued to down firewhiskey, drinking it like water, until the ache finally numbed, and he stumbled his way back home.

* * *

 

_Oct 1999_

_Hermione,_

_I think we both know that it is in the best interest of the child and myself for me to stay away. We both agree on that. However, being that this child is still mine, I intend to do my part financially. I will not knowingly leave you to bear that burden alone._

_I—_

_This situation is regretful. I am regretful, because I cannot be what you need, what the child needs._

_This child will have more than I did, a loving, intelligent, determined mother._

_I know this child will be well cared for, and that gives me an odd satisfaction that I cannot find a logical explanation for._

_My regards,_

_Tom_

* * *

 

_Jan 2000_

_Hermione,_

_Please stop sending the galleons back. I would like to assist you in the ways that I am capable, but it is quite hard to do so when you are spitting my support back in my face._

_I am still this child's father, and I will not be like my father was. I will not allow my child to suffer financially._

_I wonder, though. I wonder what this child will be like, our offspring. This child is half of you, and half of me._

_Will he be powerful?_

_I think so, yes._

_I also happen to think that it's a boy. So please, take the galleons for our son's sake. If nothing else, set up a fund for him of some kind._

_Regards,_

_Tom_

* * *

 

_March 2000_

_Hermione,_

_It has been months since I last saw you. I would like to see you. I believe I've made—_

_I just… I would like to see you, Hermione._

_Please._

_I spoke to Potter a few of months ago; he told me that you are well and that the pregnancy is progressing smoothly._

_I—I just—could I be there? For the birth of our son, you know? I would like to support you through that. I've heard it hurts. You know that I've never cared for Malfoy, but keeping his acquaintanceship is necessary for my plans._

_His wife told me that it is a very painful experience._

_In fact, Potter told me that it most certainly was, too, from what his wife told him. He'd said she'd threatened to kill him. Can you believe that? Threatening to kill the one you—you—_

_Love._

_I know that I can never possibly love you, or this child, for that matter._

_But I am prepared to offer you anything else-- **anything**  else, Hermione._

_I implore you to consider allowing me to be there._

_My regards,_

_Tom_

Hermione threw the most recent letter from Tom down to the floor, taking a bite from the peeled banana in her hand. After she'd left, she had no intention of returning to him. She'd reluctantly asked Harry to go and retrieve her things at a time that she knew Tom was at work, and somehow, he'd known that it wasn't her that came to get her things.

He'd sent her a letter. That was the first. He'd said that he would peel the skin away from the man she'd had enter her flat if that was his “replacement.” She snorted at the thought now, remembering how angry she'd been.

Harry had thought it was rather comical, not realizing that Tom was likely very serious about his threat. She knew that if Tom had known it was Harry, he would've been angry, but not  _that_ angry, because he knew Harry was just a friend.

He'd complained that she was much too close to Harry, and had been close with Ron for quite some time too, bringing up how he'd seen her running around with them during their time at Hogwarts. He'd been a year ahead of her, so they didn't see each other much, but he'd told her that it was rather hard for him to ignore the muggleborn witch that had very nearly matched his OWLs and, later, his NEWTs.

She and Ron were hardly friends anymore. During their seventh year, he'd confessed that he had feelings for her, and she'd tried to turn him down gently. His advances only got more frequent and, quite frankly, desperate, so when she'd started dating Tom, Ron had taken it rather personally.

" _Can't trust a bloody Slytherin, Hermione. He's probably only dating you on some bet with Malfoy!"_ Ron had said, and Harry rolled his eyes.

 

" _One of my mum's best friends in school was a Slytherin, Ron. You can't exactly judge people based on their house, much as you'd like to. House assignment is only part of someone, mate."_ Harry had retorted and had turned his attention towards Hermione. " _Just ignore him, Hermione. Riddle's an odd block, always gotten a weird vibe from him, if I'm honest. But if this is what makes you happy, go for it."_

 

She sat in the armchair in her flat for a while, finishing her banana. She needed to get some shopping done for the baby. She had plenty enough money to support herself and the child, thanks to her job at the Ministry, so she found it offensive when Tom had started sending galleons to her to “help financially.” Harry, ever the voice of reason—the _devil’s advocate (she snickered inwardly at the thought),_ had told her that Tom was probably just trying to help in whatever way he could. 

_"Can be quite scary to find out you're having a kid. Trust me on that, Hermione. I'm not saying what he did or said is okay, but maybe cut him some slack.’Least let him see you."_

She got up from her seat in the living room to throw the banana peel away. As she walked back to the living room, she stopped, looking at the letter on the floor. She pursed her lips, not really sure how to respond to his letter. Should she offer to meet up with him?

She was leaned down, cringing slightly when she realized that she needed to crouch to pick it up off of the floor. She was 32 weeks along, and the belly thing was starting to get to her. Her stomach felt huge, like a weight that she would never get rid of. She'd be starting her maternity leave soon, and for the first time in her life, Hermione felt like doing nothing except lounge around and eat. She felt a light kick, and she smiled, drawn out of her thoughts by her child.

"What do you think, little one?" she asked her tummy, rubbing circles around it. "Should we go see him?"

She got a kick in response, assuming that it meant _yes_. She knew that the baby likely didn't understand her at all, and that the kick was more in response to her voice than a “yes.”

But maybe she was just looking for an excuse to say yes.

She sighed, sitting down on the armchair once again. She waved her wand towards the desk, and a quill and parchment floated over to her. She reached down to the bottom of the coffee table in front of her for a book, something hard to write on. Once she finally had a book, parchment and quill in her lap, she picked up the quill.

Her mouth agape, the quill hovered above the parchment for quite some time. What was she supposed to say? How? She didn't want to seem desperate, she didn't need his help. She didn't need him around in the slightest. But—

_Tom,_

_Meet me at the Leaky Cauldron today for lunch. 12 o’clock sharp. Don't be late._

_Hermione_

* * *

 

Tom stared at the letter Hermione had sent to Borgin & Burke's addressed to him. She wanted to meet for lunch today.

He was contemplating whether he should go. He  _had_ asked to meet her, after all, but she was one of his few weaknesses. He hated to admit it, and he would never admit that to anyone but himself. What if she convinced him to give up his quest for power?  _Could_ she? He wasn't sure. He missed her presence. He missed the funny look she'd give him when they were debating about magical theory. He missed the way she sighed his name as he pleasured her. He missed the way she looked when she was flustered about something.

He missed her.

"Mr. Burke?" Tom questioned loudly. Tom had been standing at the register, while Mr. Burke was in the back of the shop.

"Yes, Tom?" the old man wheezed as he entered the front part of the shop. He wasn't a terrible boss, but he was an absolute wretch of a person. He ripped people off constantly—save for the sacred twenty-eight, and even  _that_ was questionable. He'd charged Malfoy's father 60 galleons for a necklace, once.  _60 whole galleons_ for a damned necklace! The necklace wasn't anything special, just an artifact Borgin had claimed while visiting wizarding Greece. It was apparently an anniversary gift for Mr. Malfoy's wife, Narcissa, if Tom remembered correctly.

In any case, the necklace wasn't worth 60 galleons. It wasn't even an antique. It was a charmed necklace, but he hadn't cared enough to find out what the charm on the necklace was. So, yes, Mr. Burke was a horrid person, but he was an alright boss. He was sure that he wouldn't mind letting Tom off for a lunch break.

"I didn't have time to eat this morning, so I was wondering if I could take an hour for lunch."

Mr. Burke's eyes narrowed at this. Tom rarely asked for more than 15 minutes to eat, and although that was suspicious, he didn't see how he could tell the boy no. The boy was very helpful, tending to customers charismatically, but emphatically ensuring that he wasn't talked down in price for valuable items. Yes, he'd let the boy take an hour lunch break. He didn't ask for much, so he supposed it was only right of him.

"Go 'head, Tom. Matter o’ fact, take the rest of the day off. I'm gonna close up shop here soon, got some errands of my own to run. Have a nice afternoon, m'boy."

Tom smiled in Mr. Burke's direction, who scowled at him. Even though he was a decent enough boss, he was never nice. Tom didn't mind much. He'd rather him be a mean old man than put up a kind façade.

"Thank you very much, sir." And with that, he gathered his work bag and his wand, leaving the shop in favor of the Leaky Cauldron. He would be there a few minutes early, as it was only 11:45, but it gave him time to consider what he'd say to her.

Hermione entered the Leaky Cauldron, her beaded bag clutched in her hands. It was mid-March, which meant that the weather was warming up, but still a little chilly. She'd elected to wear a flowy, navy colored long sleeve dress. It was long enough that it covered her swollen knees, but there wasn't much she could do about her swollen ankles aside from charm them to appear normal. She had decided against it, though, because she didn't think it really mattered. She was pregnant, after all, in her third trimester. Of course she was going to be swollen all over.

As she stood at the entrance of the pub, her eyes searched for a familiar face that she hadn't seen in a little over five months. She found him, sitting in one of the booths in the back of the pub. He wasn't looking at her, and that made her even more nervous. What would he think? She knew he wouldn't do anything rash in public, so she decided that under no circumstances was she to go anywhere private with him.

Steeling herself, Hermione started walking towards the booth. Seeming to sense her presence, he looked up, a smirk appearing on his lips. She watched as he took in her pregnant belly, and he seemed to draw in a rather sharp breath. The smirk disappeared, replaced by a thin-lipped look of indifference. She sighed. So, he didn't want to meet her to make amends. Of course he hadn't. Would she really want that, though? He wasn't going to be able to love the child. She knew that, and because of that, she didn't want him around. So why was she hoping that that was the reason for this meeting? She shook the emotion off as she approached the booth.

"A table would've been better." She mentioned, tilting her head slightly to get a better look at him.

He didn't seem like he'd made another horcrux in her absence. His appearance hadn't changed much since the last time she'd seen him, so she was thankful for that. His hair was still wavy, thick and dark, and his skin, while a bit paler than it had been during Hogwarts, was no paler than it was five months ago. His eyes were emotionless, his lips still drawn in a thin line.

"Why?"

She gestured to her belly, "Booths are a bit hard for me to get in these days."

Wordlessly, Tom pulled the table closer to him to make more room for her. "Better?"

She offered a small smile as she slid into the booth with unfamiliar ease. "Much. Thank you."

He nodded in acknowledgement of her thanks but said nothing. Why did he ask her to meet him if he wasn't going to talk?

The moments of silence dragged on until, finally, a waitress approached them. "What can I get for ya?"

"A butterbeer for me, thanks. And for the lady…?" Tom looked at her expectantly. Hermione smiled up at the waitress, "Tea, please. Thank you." The waitress nodded and smiled at her, eyes focused on her belly. "Expecting, are ya? Is it a boy or a girl?"

Hermione's eyes flickered to Tom for a moment, wondering if he would be disappointed at her answer. She looked back to the waitress with a grin on her face, "It's a girl."

The waitress chuckled and looked between the two of them. "Well, if she looks anything like either of you, you're going to have a world of trouble on ya hands, sir."

Tom offered a smile to the waitress. "Indeed. I find I'm getting quite thirsty, though…" he trailed off, an expectant, yet somehow polite look gracing his features.

The waitress' eyes widened slightly. "Oh! My apologies! I'll be right back with ya’ drinks."

And with that, the waitress stalked off.

Tom's eyes slowly slid towards Hermione's, and suddenly she felt rather self-conscious. She looked down at her hands, which were joined together in her lap.

"So," Tom started, resting his crossed arms on the table in front of them, "It's a girl?"

Hermione could only nod, worried that her voice might fail her somehow.

"What's her name?"

Hermione looked up at him, searching his eyes for genuine interest. He seemed interested enough, but not as much as one would expect an expecting father to be. "I haven't decided yet."

"Ah." Was his simple response. His eyes returned to their initial stony, emotionless void, and Hermione found herself growing more irritated with him by the second.

"So that's it, then? You asked to meet so you could find out her name? You could've just asked in one of your letters!" she spat, glaring at him. This was ridiculous. She'd pay for her tea and leave if he was just going to ask her simple questions and let moments of despicably awkward silence pass by.

He swallowed, meeting her eyes. "I wanted to see you, find out if I could be there when—when she's born. I want to support you—"

"Support me?" she retorted incredulously, "support me, Tom? I don't need your support. I have a job of my own that can support me and the baby, easily. I have friends and family who support me, who  _love_ me. So if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to know the real reason you asked me here today. Don't toy with me; I'm not stupid."

 

Tom bit his lip, looking down at his hands on the table. He truly  _did_ want to be there when the baby—his daughter—was born. He wanted to be there for her, at least sometimes. Deciding he had nothing to lose, he told Hermione, "I… I don't want to be like my father, Hermione." His voice was quiet, and Hermione had to strain to even hear him. "I want to—I just—Merlin." He grunted, looking down at his lap now.

This was so hard for him. Nothing had ever been hard for him, nothing in his life. But this? This—

"I realize you don't want me around a lot, I get that. I can't—I can't offer the love she needs. I accept that. But I—" he bit down harder on his lip. He was sure the skin there would break soon.

"I—the past five months have really made me think and… and I would like to be there, sometimes, if you'll let me. I want to be there when she's born, and maybe a holiday or two, her birthdays. You don't even have to tell her I'm her father if you don't want to—just…" he trailed off, not sure what else to say.

He didn't want to look up at her. He felt so humiliated and vulnerable, because for once, he didn't have the upper hand in a situation. He had no control here, and he supposed he really shouldn't have any in this situation. She was carrying the baby, not him. She was going to be there for the baby every day, not him. She would love the baby, not him. She would choose the baby over power, fame, success… not him. "I—I don't want her to end up like me, Hermione." He whispered, that damned stinging in his eyes  _again._ In public, no less. Thankfully, they were in the back of the pub, so no one saw them, but even  _her_ seeing this was embarrassing and weak and  _wrong._

He felt the sudden warmth of a hand upon his. He looked up at her, his head still hung low. "Tom," she said quietly, "I assure you, she will be  _nothing_ like you. She won't, because you won't be around. Not when she's born, not on holidays, and not on birthdays. You made your decision based on what's best for you. I am making mine based on what's best for  _her._ "

And with that, she gathered her beaded bag to leave. She was halfway out the door before Tom stood to follow her.

"Hermione!" he shouted, following her waddling frame through the bustling lunchtime crowds.

"Hermione!" he shouted again as he neared her, and she stopped. She turned around slowly, tears filling her eyes. "What, Tom? You've already made me into a fool! What else could you possibly—"

He interrupted her as his mouth crashed down on hers in a crushing kiss. She stood, motionless, not responding to his kiss at all. He just wanted to feel it one last time—just one last—

A resounding smack was heard all across the Alley, and Tom pulled away immediately. His face scrunched up in confusion. "What—"

"How  _dare_ you, Tom Marvolo Riddle! How _dare_ you!" she was pointing at him, her hand shaking. "I should hex you into oblivion for that, you daft _imbecile_!" she was yelling, and a few people had stopped to watch the scene unfold.

"Hermione, I—" his voice was desperate even as a small crowd gathered, but he didn't care. He needed her. He needed her to keep him sane. He couldn't be trusted with himself, no. He would destroy himself, the world, without her. He was already—

"NO, Tom! NO! I'm tired of your excuses. It's all about you for you! Well, for me, it's all about her!" she pointed to her stomach, glaring daggers at him as tears spilled down her face, dripping from her chin to the concrete beneath her feet. "For the past five months, Tom," she lowered her voice as she seemed to register that they were no longer alone. "It's been about her. Since I found out. I left, spent a week at Harry and Ginny's to clear my mind. I was inconsolable, Tom. I—I shouldn't have been. I knew you'd choose your plans over her. I knew you would, but I didn't want to face it. And I was heartbroken because of it. I didn't trust myself going to your flat—thought I might stay and try to talk some sense into you, so I sent Harry. Harry brought my things, and they helped me find—" she stopped, realizing she was about to give the location of her own flat away, and shook her head. "They helped me. Ginny has helped me shop for the baby, she's been to my appointments to see the mediwitch, she's helped me clean, cook, the like.  _Harry_ built her crib, Tom.  _Harry._ All of this—sacrificing, for me and for her…" her voice was beginning to tremble again. She bit her lip, willing herself to continue. "While they have their own child and another on the way to worry about. But here's the thing, Tom. They sacrifice their time, their effort—for me and the baby, because they  _love_ us, Tom. They  _love_ us. And that, Tom, is something you've very bluntly stated you could never do." She stopped, drawing in a deep breath. "I'll be on my way, now." She turned on her heel, an ache forming in her chest as she realized just how many people had stood there, watching and listening.

 

Draco Malfoy was among them, but this time, there was no smug smirk or air of superiority about him. He looked—he looked sad, almost. Like he pitied someone. Like he pitied  _her._

His wife was beside him, and she also seemed to wear a pitiful look upon her face. She wiped at her tears, pushing through the crowd of people, intent on going home and never seeing the face of Tom Marvolo Riddle again.

Tom stood there, motionless yet again, after Hermione left. Several people walked by, some sneering at him in disgust of the fact that he would not be there for his child. A few gave him pitiful looks—especially the men. But one in particular stopped in front of him, rendering Tom full of motion again. He willed himself to gain control again, standing like he normally would and allowing his eyes to be overcome with a stony look once again.

Draco Malfoy stood before him, a puzzling expression on his face.

"Riddle, I know you have— _plans,_ but…" he stopped, carefully considering his next words. He  _was_ one of Tom's followers, and he certainly didn't fancy a punishment under Tom's wand. "Granger—as much as I can't stand mud—" He stopped when he caught the death glare Tom was sending him, "—sorry, sorry. Muggleborns, as much as I can't stand Muggleborns, Granger is… pains me to say, different. Not totally useless, I mean. And even—even if she was, well, you're having a bloody  _baby_ with her. So… so even if you don't think you can, you need to  _try,_ Riddle. I mean, the baby—" Malfoy stepped closer, his voice lowering as his eyes flickered around them. He didn't want to cast a silencing charm out of fear that it would seem odd and suspicious in their current setting. "The baby is—well, you know who  _you_  are, Riddle. That would translate to your child as well. Wouldn't you want to be able to use that to your advantage?"

Normally, Tom would take Malfoy's words with a grain of salt. He was a necessary ally because of his wealth and undeniable power due to his family name, but he wasn't the most… inciteful. He was intelligent, sure, but generally, any ideas he had were far too extreme and not at all practical. He was a spoiled brat, and it showed when his followers met up for meetings.

But this? This was a very interesting sentiment. Of course, Tom knew that his child would be a Slytherin heir, just as he was, regardless of her mother's pedigree. Not that Tom truly cared about Hermione's blood status as Malfoy did, but there was something to be said for the fourth of the child that would be Slytherin blood, literally. She would very likely be a Parselmouth as well. Wouldn't that—

Wouldn't that be worth something? He would surely have a great admiration for the child, especially if she proved to be powerful. Maybe… maybe he could train the child to assist him? Maybe… But he would still need to convince Hermione, who currently wanted nothing to do with him.

A mischievous smirk slowly formed on his lips. He slapped a hand down on Malfoy's shoulder in an uncharacteristic gesture, causing the platinum blonde man to jump slightly in surprise. "Well, Malfoy," Tom started in a soft, low voice. "Looks like your ideas aren't so useless after all."

* * *

 

Hermione burst through the door to her flat, tears falling to the carpet as she sobbed. She  _knew_ she shouldn't have gone. She should've just ignored it, like she'd done with most of his letters. He didn't want to change. He didn't want to make up, and even if he had, she likely wouldn't have gone along with it. She knew she wouldn't have. She would have wanted to, sure, because if she were honest, she missed Tom. She missed nearly everything about him. Hell, she loved Tom, but he would never be able to love her or their child, and she knew that all being with him would do is eventually hurt both her and their daughter. She couldn't allow that to happen. She could last through a year's worth of grief over losing him if it meant protecting her daughter.

She had to.

She heard a knock on her door, and she tried to fix herself before going for the door. She'd sent a Patronus to Harry and Ginny, who'd asked her to let them know how their meeting went.

"Hey Her—" Ginny started with a smile on her face, but her face fell immediately when she took in the state of her best friend. "What did he do?" Ginny demanded. "Harry, look at her! What happened, Hermione?"

Harry walked in after Ginny, shutting the door behind him. He looked furious. "What did he do, Hermione?" Harry stepped forward, "So after he spoke to me, he goes and asks to meet you but doesn't even try to—"

"It's fine, guys." Hermione spoke up, sighing as she went to sit in her comfy armchair in the living room. Harry and Ginny followed her but made no move to sit or drop the topic like she wished for them to.

"No, it's not. He essentially asked to see you just to make you relive what happened again." Ginny replied. "You know, so many girls fawned over him at Hogwarts, and I always knew there was something off about him. Sure, he's a handsome bloke, smart, too, but there's something—something…hmm, sinister—yes, that's the word—something sinister there that you'll only see glimpses of."

Harry looked at her curiously but didn't press. "Well, be that as it may, he shouldn't have asked you there just to hurt you again. Once is enough. You don't deserve that, Hermione. Neither of you do."

Hermione knew he was talking about her and the baby, but she couldn't help feeling like she wasn't helping Tom at all. As strange as it sounded, she knew that he was changing—even in the subtlest of ways, due to her influence. As time had gone on, he was spending more time with her instead of his “friends.” He was still dabbling in the Dark Arts, but after she'd seen the book on horcruxes, regardless of the glare he'd sent her, his aura—his magic, wasn't getting darker at the same rate that it had been before. It was still growing, but it wasn't growing at the same rate.

Was she doing him a disservice by not being there for him? By not helping him?

What about her daughter? Tom was a powerful wizard, even for his age. What if her daughter found out that he was her father, and resented Hermione for not telling her? For not letting her see him, when he admittedly wanted some place in her life? What if—what if he were to become a dark wizard like Grindelwald, Merlin knew he had the potential, and—and—

What if her not being there was the catalyst for it all? What if—what if— _what_ _if_ —

"He… he did say that he wanted to help, you know. Wanted to be there for the birth and wanted to see her during holidays and birthdays." Hermione's voice was small, as if she wasn't really focusing on the words coming out of her mouth. And truly, she wasn't. She'd been so sure of herself—so sure of her decision to keep Tom out of the picture for good. But now, after today, she wasn't sure that it was the right thing for her to do.

"Oh," was all Ginny said and her furious expression softened a bit. "Well, that's better than asking you to get rid of her, sure, but it's still not—"

"It doesn't take care of the fact that he doesn't think he could love her. I know, I know." Hermione finished as Ginny and Harry took seats on her couch. "Where's Albus?" Hermione asked, assuming that he was likely with Molly.

"With mum," Ginny confirmed, "we thought it was important that we come alone."

Hermione nodded, and her eyes drifted to Harry. He seemed like he was in deep thought.

Silence enveloped them for a while, before Harry spoke.

"I can't imagine growing up like he did. My mother dying, father wanting nothing to do with me." Ginny gasped at this information, and Harry quickly explained, "Dumbledore wanted me to keep tabs on him after the Chamber opened. It's a shame that Katie Bell died the way she did, what, with the Basilisk and all—"

"Basilisk?" Ginny exclaimed. "I thought it was—"

"An Acromantula. Yea, that's the story they stuck with because if they'd informed students and parents that there was a Basilisk somewhere in the castle, people would've started pulling their kids from the school or, worse, the school could've closed down." Harry replied, looking back to Hermione.

"As I was saying, I can't imagine that. I dunno that I wouldn't have ended up similar. Not justifying him, mind you, but… it is sad. I never imagined that he would want to do the same to his own child, to the mother of the child."

"I'm not dying, Harry." Hermione reminded him. He stared at her sadly. "Yea, yea. I know. But ever since you left, you've had this sort of sadness in your eyes that never goes away."

Ginny nodded solemnly in agreement, rubbing her own swollen belly in circles.

"I'm fine—"

"Stop lying to us, Hermione. It's okay to be sad." Ginny interrupted.

It was silent for a while again, and then Hermione said, "I just… I just wonder, you know? How does he know he couldn't love her if she's not here yet? I love her, because she's here to me, with me, in my body. How does he know for certain? How could he say those things? Even—even if I was vying for power, to become a great witch or wizard, I don't know that I could ever—" her eyes began to burn, but she willed the tears away. She wouldn't cry over this anymore. She was too far along to stress about any of this. She couldn't afford to.

"I don't know Riddle very well, but I think he's afraid." Harry interjected. "He's afraid of it, has to be. He—I mean, I've never really trusted him, or liked him for that matter, but he doesn't seem like the type to try new things. I think it would've happened eventually with the two of you, you know. You were together for 10 months. It was only a matter of time before he started to feel something stronger than affection for you, Hermione."

Hermione considered his words carefully, trying to decide how she felt about it. She knew she loved Tom, and Tom certainly cared for her, but she didn't know if she would call it love. He never called it love. In fact, he'd once gone on a rant about how love makes one weak, because it gives other people leverage. He complained about Headmaster Dumbledore's speeches on it, calling him an 'old coot' for believing love was such a strong, powerful force. He was against the very concept of it, so could he eventually love her? Could he love their daughter?

"I think I'm going to take a nap." Hermione announced, standing to her feet carefully. Harry and Ginny followed suit, and Hermione walked the short distance to the door with them. "Thank you both so much for coming. I am so lucky to have friends like the two of you."

Harry smiled, and Ginny grinned. "We love you, Hermione," Ginny said, "We wouldn't dream of not being there for you. Even though my brother has a rather strong opinion on it." She joked, and Harry rolled his eyes. "Don't get me started." He muttered.

Ron had taken the news of her pregnancy quite… well, saying he was upset would be an understatement. He'd called her a whore, and Ginny had slapped him for it. Then, he'd told her that she deserved whatever she got from having a baby with a “bloke like Riddle.” He hadn't spoken to her since, and she was glad. She wouldn't be talked to like that by anyone.

"See you guys," Hermione said as she shut the door behind them.

On the other side of the door, Harry looked at Ginny with a determined look in his eyes.

"I think I'm going to go have another talk with Riddle."

 


	3. Chapter 3

**In This Moment**

_"The right thing isn't always real obvious. Sometimes the right thing for one person is the wrong thing for someone else. So... good luck figuring that out." - Stephenie Meyer, Twilight_

* * *

 

**Chapter Three**

 

Later that night, Harry ventured off to go speak to Tom. He most certainly wasn't afraid of Riddle, and he needed to at least try to get through to him. He'd known where Riddle lived, of course. When Hermione had lived with him, he, Ginny and Albus had visited a few times. He'd also been there to retrieve Hermione's things several months back. He had to admit that he found the whole thing odd, the whole conversation.

Most men were either terrified of the prospect of having a child or embraced it to the fullest extent. Riddle didn't fit into either of those categories, apparently. The men who were terrified simply didn't offer to take care of their children. They just—well, they just didn't. And the men who embraced the idea of being a father would never suggest abortion, or, more specifically, "getting rid of it.”

But Riddle was different.

Riddle wanted to be there now, wanted to help in any way he could. He didn't want a full-on relationship or parental role with his daughter from what he'd been told, but seemed to prefer being a background figure in her life. Harry honestly found it quite selfish. He wanted to be there, but didn't want to put in the hard work. But then, was it selfish? If he thought he couldn't love the child…

And then there was  _that_  ridiculous notion of not being able to love the child. If he was honest with himself, even though he was elated when he found out Ginny was pregnant, he didn't immediately love Albus. Not when he was still in Ginny's belly, because he didn't know him yet, hadn't seen him yet. That was normal.

He fell in love with Albus when he was born, as many fathers did. Harry had never worried about it to the extent of not wanting to be a father at all. The whole idea of it was absolutely ridiculous to him.

Finally, he reached Riddle's flat. He couldn't be certain that Riddle was home, but he was hopeful.

Harry knocked on the door, and soon after, Riddle appeared in the door way.

Surprise flashed quickly through his eyes, and he leaned against the door frame with his arms crossed in front of his chest. "Potter," he greeted suspiciously, "What do you want?"

Harry swallowed, unsure of how to start this conversation of. "Riddle," he nodded his acknowledgment. "Mind if I come in for a bit? I've something to discuss with you."

Riddle tilted his head to one side, regarding Harry for quite a few moments. Finally, he pushed off of the door frame, opening the front door wider. "In that case, come on in."

Tom wasn't quite sure whether or not it was necessary to put on his charm for Harry Potter. Potter didn't seem fooled, and there was truly no telling what he knew, considering his close friendship with Hermione. He was almost positive that she was the subject Potter wanted to discuss, and as such, he decided to let him in.

He led him to the modest living room, gesturing for him to sit on the grey couch to the left of the grey armchair. Potter took a seat as Tom did.

Potter sighed heavily, resting his elbows on his knees. He clasped his hands together as he spoke, "Look, Riddle. I know we aren't friends. Never have been, probably never will be, and that's fine. But…" he stopped and sighed again, and Tom got the impression that Potter was getting ready to say something that he didn't really want to. "You made Hermione very happy when you were together. And then, this happened—you know, her pregnancy and all. And you supposedly tell her you cannot possibly love your own child. I just—I don't get it. I'd like to understand, though. I would, for Hermione's sake. She's one of my best friends, you know, maybe the best friend I've ever had. I just… I just want to know why you insist on hurting her now, saying that you won't love your daughter. It really—"

"Look, Potter." Tom interrupted quickly. "I understand that you are one of Hermione's close friends and you care for her, but to be quite frank, my reasoning is none of your business. Not anyone's really, so don't take offense to that. Not even Hermione." Tom's eyes narrowed as he watched Potter process this information.

"Yea, you're right. None of my business. But maybe, just maybe, Tom, someone could help you understand your own feelings."

Tom froze at this. What feelings was he talking about, exactly?

"Hermione told me you wanted power. I didn't press her on it, because I would never put her in that position. But I can guess that it has something to do with the Dark Arts, from the way you act. I… Tom, regardless of your ambitions, children have a way of changing every aspect of your life as soon as they enter the world. You honestly have no idea what you'll feel until she's here. I didn't—"

"Love is a silly and foolish weakness to have, Potter. I won't be—"

"Well you know what else is silly and foolish, Tom?" Harry interrupted, his gaze growing harsher. "Denying the love of a child. Your child—your child will love you when you think no one else does. Your child will destroy every single expectation you ever had and build new ones. Your child will make you proud, for silly things, really. Ginny and I celebrated Albus' first shit, for Merlin's sake, first everything. You—you just don't know, Tom. And to be frank, I think it's foolish of you to assume how you'll feel. That for some reason, you don't feel capable—"

"I can't say that I appreciate the concern, Potter. You're wasting your time. It's in the best interest of the child that she is not around me."

"That." Harry unwound his hands and pointed at Tom. Tom was struck with confusion, wondering which part of what he'd said was of so much interest. "That, wanting the best for your child even if you don't think the best is you, is love, Tom. You already love her, you are just scared of how she will unwind your life and spin it into something new that you are not familiar with."

Harry went to stand, having answered his own question. He brushed the invisible dust off of his dark denim jeans. "I think I'll be leaving now. Just think about it, Tom. If you want her back, you have to tell her what you just told me."

* * *

 

When he got home that night, Harry told Ginny about his short conversation with Tom. "And then, then he says that it isn't in the best interest of the baby to be around him. He—he already loves her, Gin! That's the crazy part about all of it—well, the craziest part. Plenty of crazy parts to go around in this situation, I'd think." He told Ginny as he pulled his black pajama pants over his hips. She was laying in their bed, staring up at Harry with a curious expression on her face.

"You know, men complain about how complicated women are, but I think it's you lot who are actually complicated." She giggled, "He doesn't understand what he's feeling, Harry. If what you've said is true, he's never felt love from anyone and, well, it would stand to reason that he doesn't recognize it. Maybe… maybe this will all work out for the best. I hope so, for Hermione's sake and for the baby's sake."

"Me too, Gin." Harry nodded, "Me too."

* * *

 

No one had heard from Tom Riddle for almost a month, and Hermione was beginning to worry.

Harry had told Hermione about their conversation and how he was sure that Tom already loved the baby, and although she wasn't exactly convinced at the time, she had to admit that Harry had a point.

She knew that Tom had certainly cared for her—probably more so than he had for anyone else in his entire life. She would bet anything she had that Tom had never cared for anyone before her, aside from caring about said person's usefulness to him and his plans. So, in that respect, she knew he had changed. Would he change enough to actually love their child? She didn't know if she was ready to bet on it. But, one thing that she knew for sure was that she had a child to protect.

She was only a month or so away from her due date, and everything about her just seemed to be getting bigger. Her belly, her breasts, her hair, her emotions, hell, even her magic seemed to be changing. She knew that that was attributed to the baby, what with her gender reveal appointment. The baby was strong, and so, Hermione was much stronger as a result of it. It was strange to have this much magic, and at times, she felt like a child again when she got emotional and couldn't control her responses. She'd busted a teapot after a fit of tears, recently. She'd just stared at it, wondering if this was what her life was going to be like for the next several years. The child was already exerting her own magic, using her mother as a conduit rather than a wand. She should've expected as much. Hermione considered herself to be humble, but she was no fool. She was very in tune with her magic and she knew that she had great control over it (well, when she wasn't pregnant). Tom had told her several times that she was very powerful, and had even mentioned being impressed with her dueling capabilities during Dueling Club back at Hogwarts. He'd made sure to note that she could improve on a few things, particularly her usage and counters of dark spells. Or, more specifically, that she  _didn't_ use dark spells at all. But, nonetheless, she knew the extent of her own magical capabilities, and she knew that Tom was extremely powerful. So of course, together, they would have a strong child. She frowned as she thought of the day she'd been told that her child was different, and very likely to be more powerful than others.

_Hermione sat in a rather comfortable examination chair, looking thoughtfully at the muggle paintings in the room. The walls were painted pastel yellow, the color a magical woman's magic turned during pregnancy. The air in the small examination room smelled clean, just like most offices of muggle doctors. It was strange to her how similar and how different the muggle and magical worlds were._

_She'd chosen this mediwitch on Ginny's recommendation—of course, she'd considered seeing a muggle reproductive doctor—an OB/GYN, but when Harry's mother, Lily, had informed her that magical pregnancies were a bit different than muggle pregnancies, she'd decided against it. Lily had said that magical people generally see mediwitches for their pregnancies to ensure that the baby's magic was growing properly and not interfering negatively with their own. Of course, muggles, such as Hermione's mother, who had no idea of the existence of magic, saw muggle doctors throughout the duration of their pregnancy, and still produced healthy, magical children all the time. But, better to be safe than sorry._

_So she'd asked Ginny to give her the name and location of the mediwitch she saw, and Ginny had happily obliged. Because their pregnancies were so close together, they often had appointments scheduled for the same day and accompanied each other to their appointments. Unfortunately, Ginny was preoccupied with other matters today, so Hermione was here alone. She understood that Ginny was already a mother of one child and had a husband to tend to as well. She couldn't expect her to be there for everything, much as she'd like her to be._

_Hermione was drawn from her thoughts when the white door of the room opened, revealing a petite woman with bouncy, tightly coiled curls. Her skin was the color of coffee, her features sharp and pronounced. She appeared to be middle-aged, though Ginny had said that this woman tended to her mother's pregnancies, so Hermione was sure that she was a bit older._

_She smiled at Hermione as she unsheathed her wand, "Nice to see you again, Ms. Granger. You are at the twenty-week mark now, so we should be able to find out the gender today, if you'd like. I know it's common to wait until birth these days." She stepped closer to Hermione and Hermione offered the mediwitch a large grin._

" _I am delighted to hear that, Ms. Delasu. I would love to find out what the gender is." The mediwitch sat in a rolling chair beside Hermione and began casting different diagnostic spells, chattering as she did so. "Today, we will begin by checking your sugar and cholesterol levels, along with checking your blood pressure. We will also examine your magic and the baby's magic today to ensure that everything is progressing as smoothly as it should."_

_It was quiet for a few moments as Ms. Delasu studied the information she received from the diagnostic spells she'd cast. She smiled at Hermione again, "Everything looks good. You know, many witches around these parts think that they are immune to certain pregnancy issues that can appear in muggle women, such as gestational diabetes and preeclampsia. Although witches and wizards possess the magic to eliminate such problems, it tends to be much easier to do so if the problem is caught in the first or second trimester, rather than later on in the pregnancy."_

_Hermione absorbed this information and nodded, thankful that Ms. Delasu was so thorough and thoughtful. Being a muggleborn mediwitch, she seemed to combine some of the muggle's studies and findings on pregnancy along with everything she'd learnt about pregnancy in witches. It was helpful and reassuring, to say the least. After a few waves of her wand, Ms. Delasu withdrew a thin line of hot pink magic, seemingly from Hermione's belly. She frowned slightly, but said nothing._

_Hermione watched the mediwitch's face intently as the woman studied this particular strand of magic for a moment. Unable to contain herself, Hermione asked, "Is something wrong, Ms. Delasu? I—I've read the pamphlets offered in the waiting room and I know that pastel pink is representative of girls while pastel blue is representative of boys. Why is mine so dark?"_

_The mediwitch pursed her lips as if contemplating what to say next. Finally, she smiled at Hermione, "Nothing is wrong, dear. It's just—well, it's quite rare for the strand to be so dark. The baby is healthy, as I've said, it just seems to have quite a bit of magic for this point in the pregnancy. Well, I shouldn't say that nothing is wrong yet, because, well—"_

_The baby might be syphoning your magic, Ms. Granger. Although my diagnostic tests are coming up clear, it is possible that the child is unintentionally syphoning your magic and therefore making her own stronger. The other possibility is that you are further along than we thought, but I don't think that is the case. The strand gets darker as the pregnancy progresses, and this strand is the depth of a woman who is days away from giving birth to a magical baby girl. Of course, you aren't measuring larger than anyone else who's twenty weeks along, but…"_

_She pursed her lips again and offered Hermione a sad smile. "But if the baby is, in fact, syphoning your magic, then… well, Ms. Granger, we'd have to deliver as soon as possible to prevent your magic from depleting totally."_

_Hermione's brow furrowed, "But… you've just said that I'm healthy because the diagnostic tests are—"_

_The curly haired woman held up a hand, "Ms. Granger, I am sorry to upset you, but this is rather serious. I'll send a Patronus to a friend of mine who specializes in high risk magical pregnancies for a second opinion. I'll be back in a moment."_

_With that, Ms. Delasu left the room, and Hermione found herself in quite the panic. She had never heard of an early magical deliver, let alone high risk magical pregnancies. No, this was highly unusual for magical pregnancies, she was sure of it. It couldn't be so unusual, though, because Ms. Delasu had just informed her that she had a friend who specialized in high risk magical pregnancies. Everything would be fine, she was sure of it. The baby wasn't syphoning her magic. It was impossible. She hadn't seen any decreases in her magical abilities lately, quite the opposite, in fact. And so, she sat impatiently, tears streaming down her face at the implications of this. What if the baby didn't survive? Early deliver in magical pregnancies was almost unheard of, so she wasn't sure if the survival rate of magical infants was any different, but she knew muggle infants had a much better chance of surviving after twenty-four weeks gestational age. She just couldn't—no, she wouldn't consider—_

_Suddenly, Ms. Delasu opened the door again. Another woman, much taller, and larger in build, walked into the room. Her hair was straight and honey blonde in color. She offered Hermione a tight-lipped smile as she offered her hand. "Hello, Ms. Granger," she greeted as she shook Hermione's hand, "I'm Charlotte Tilvion, but you may call me Mrs. Tilvion if you'd like. I'm a colleague of Claudia's—well, you know her as Ms. Delasu, I suppose, but I—"_

_Hermione cut her off in a rather uncharacteristic fashion, "Mrs. Tilvion, is this a common occurrence in magical pregnancies?"_

_The woman said nothing as she raised her wand to Hermione's belly in a similar manner to what Ms. Delasu had done earlier. "Well, Ms. Granger, we aren't going to call it an 'occurrence' yet, because we aren't quite sure anything has occurred." She smiled softly at Hermione as she said this, her voice soothing in tone. It turned quite serious as she continued, "If your question is whether high risk pregnancies in magical women are common, the answer is no, they are not. Magical women have capabilities that muggle women don't, and because of that, we are usually able to fight off anything that poses a threat to our bodies or our unborn children with our magic. Subconsciously, mind you, but it's there. My colleagues tend to call me an expert in the field because—well, I've dealt with a number of these pregnancies before over the past several decades. I mostly see magical women with healthy pregnancies, but I have seen and learned quite a bit about—" she stopped suddenly, examining the same strand of hot pink magic that Ms. Delasu had seen earlier. She bit her lower lip, a wrinkle appearing in her forehead as she examined it._

" _Claudia, would you be so kind as to cast another diagnostics spell?"_

_Ms. Delasu did as she was told, and Mrs. Tilvion looked back and forth between the information before her and the strand of magic she held with her wand. After what felt like an eternity to Hermione, Mrs. Tilvion shook her head slowly and carefully lowered her wand over Hermione's stomach, putting the strand of magic back in its place. "Ms. Granger, I don't see anything of alarm here."_

_Hermione was extremely relieved to hear that, but she was still confused. Why was the baby's magic so dark? "But… why would her magic be so… such a deep shade of pink?" she asked, mulling over the possibilities in her head. She gripped the sides of the examination chair as slight tremors began to rack her body. Was the baby naturally predisposed to dark magic, given her father's tendencies towards it? Was that it? What—_

" _Ms. Granger, it appears that this child has a high capacity for magic. It will only get darker as your pregnancy progresses. While this is very rare, it isn't cause for concern unless you begin experiencing symptoms outside of the norm for magical pregnancies." Mrs. Tilvion's face was much calmer now and her smile was more genuine._

_Hermione relaxed, but was not altogether pleased with this explanation. She needed to know more. "Forgive me, but I'm not quite understanding. When you say that she had a high capacity for magic, what do you mean? She has more magic than others?"_

_Mrs. Tilvion offered a playful smirk, settling more comfortably into the rolling chair. "Kind of. It—we as wizards and witches, we all have a magical signature. Our magical signature is what makes us who we are, what gives us our magic. When we examine magical women and their pregnancies, we are able to give a prognosis on you and the baby through your magical signatures. While in the womb, magical children's magic is blue or pink, indicating gender. I'm sure Ms. Delasu has informed you of how the magic will turn deeper and deeper in color, regardless of the child's magical capabilities. But there are rare and strange occurrences where the magic of a child is deeper earlier on. Generally, this indicates that the child is effectively taking your magic from you. Infants are very sensitive to their mother's magic, but they will only use it with their own if there is an issue that magic can instinctually correct._

 

_This is why Ms. Delasu was so concerned, because—well, to be frank, these situations usually don't end well. The mother can be depleted of her magic completely, and even so, the child will continue to take energy from you until there is nothing left. It is a natural response to disease, muggle or magical. But since your vitals are fine and you don't appear to be having any symptoms of magical depletion, which—well, you would by now, simply put, given the color of the baby's magic, and you are most certainly no further than twenty weeks along, well…" Mrs. Tilvion sighed in relief as she put her wand away. "We can conclude that the child is neither syphoning your magic or much further along than initially expected. Your child is simply… stronger—yes, that's a good word, stronger in her magic than most magical children."_

 

_Hermione bit her lip as she processed this information. She should've known that the child would be gifted with her magic, especially given Tom's abilities. But she hadn't expected this. She didn't plan for this. What if Tom found out? He would surely want to be in the child's life—her life, then. Was that a good thing? She wasn't sure. She knew Tom wanted power—wanted to be surrounded by powerful people. But what if their child was just—just normal? Would he want to be in her life then? Surely not, because he was operating under the assumption that the child **was** normal. But he wasn't stupid. If—if he had the chance to get to know their child—their daughter, he would surely want to—_

_He'd want to make her more like him. He'd want to use her power to excel his own plans, and she couldn't allow that. Tom couldn't know. Under no circumstances could Tom know the information she was just given._

" _Ms. Granger?" Ms. Delasu called softly, and Hermione snapped out of her thoughts. "Yes?"_

" _You are free to go now. I apologize for any stress I may have caused you, I just—"_

" _It's fine," Hermione interrupted, standing to her feet as she pulled her shirt back down over her protruding belly. "Better to be safe than sorry, right?"_

_Ms. Delasu nodded slowly. She seemed to read Hermione's thoughts as she said, "This is not a bad thing, Ms. Granger. You are to give birth to a healthy baby girl who is likely destined to do wonderful things in the magical world."_

_Mrs. Telvion nodded in agreement. "Indeed. I—I've only seen one other case like this, years ago. Twenty-something years ago, a woman came to see me. She begged me to see her, poor thing. She was rather skinny for a pregnant woman, almost out of her the third trimester, getting ready to have the baby. Maybe a week or so out from her due date. She didn't have much money, see, and didn't think I'd see her without payment. I sensed something… well, something off about the baby, so I offered to give her a free check-up. Not going to turn away a pregnant woman, right? How could I? So… I told her she was having a boy first. She was very excited. 'I hope he's handsome like his father!' she'd said, and I'm pained to admit that I agreed with her. Didn't say anything, of course, but she wasn't the prettiest thing. Strange thing was, the baby's magic was dark blue. Almost a navy blue, but even deeper, if it's possible. Almost black. I stared at it for a while, seemed like hours, but only a few minutes had passed. I… I ran some diagnostics on her, much like we did you. Everything appeared normal, and the woman said that she didn't have any problems with her magic." She paused, considering her next words with a solemn look on her face._

 

" _She was… well, she looked sad. Said she didn't know how she'd take care of this baby, 'cause the father had left her. I felt bad for her, 'course, and told her about some of the offerings the ministry has for women who were otherwise unable to take care of themselves and their child. She—Merlin, what was her name? Can't seem to quite remember. Anyway, she left in quite the rush, and I never saw her again after that. I've always wondered what happened to her, more so to that baby, if I'm honest. Is he powerful now, or—or were we wrong? Was the baby—well, I don't think the baby was syphoning her magic. Really, I think he was just quite powerful, much like your little one. Ah, well, don't listen to this old woman rant. Go along and let your family know the good news!" Mrs. Telvion gave Hermione a half hug, grinning at her._

 

" _Be sure to bring the baby by my office after she's born. Ms. Delasu can give you the address. I'm not too far away, and I'd love to meet this little one. Ah!" she stopped, pointing her finger in the air as if she was having an 'eureka!' moment. "I remember. Her name was Merope. Yep, can't forget an odd name like that. Not when the situation was so odd altogether—"_

_Hermione hadn't heard another thing the woman had said after that. She'd just slowly walked out of the office, back into the bustling streets of the medical wizarding district. Merope. Merope Gaunt. Merope Gaunt Merope Gaunt Merope Gaunt._ It kept repeating in her brain as she slowly made her way to the pub she was supposed to meet Harry, Ginny and Albus at.

 

_Merope Gaunt. Tom's mother._

 

_Merope Gaunt was the only other witch Mrs. Telvion has ever seen with a pregnancy like hers._

 

Hermione ate lunch with the Potters in a daze, unable to get herself out of her thoughts. Her mind was racing. She knew she couldn't let Tom have anything to do with their daughter now. How could she? She couldn't let him corrupt their daughter like he'd been. She couldn't, she had to protect her _daughter._

_She had to protect her daughter at all costs._

Hermione would be lying to herself if she said that she hadn't been horrified that day. She had wanted to keep her distance from Tom, but their meeting a few weeks after that appointment…

It had changed everything.

Initially, it hadn't. She was furious the first few days. With herself, with him, with everything. But as she'd calmed down and thought about it logically, she realized that it was selfish of her to keep the baby from Tom. If he wanted to be there, she wouldn't stop him. It would be wrong of her, she knew. Her child deserved to have both of her parents in her life, even if Hermione thought Tom's tendencies were… well, problematic. Their daughter deserved the best, and she knew that even if Tom's affections weren't always apparent, they were certainly there. He cared for her, and she knew that he could care for their daughter if he was given the chance.

So after Harry had told her about his conversation with Tom, and after she'd had a rather verbally violent inner battle with herself over what she should do, she'd gone to speak with him herself.

She hated to admit how conflicted she'd felt when she realized that he wasn't there. She was relieved in one sense because it meant that she didn't have to explain herself to him. But she was disheartened, because now… now, as strange as it sounded, she felt guilty. She felt guilty, because she felt as if she was doing her daughter a disservice by not at least attempting to make amends with Tom. She knew she didn't necessarily have to be with him, but she would've at least liked to make an agreement with him about their daughter. She'd gone by Borgin & Burke's—reluctantly, to see if he was there. When she noticed a new shop-boy manning the counter, she decided to approach Mr. Burke. He'd told her that Tom had asked for a full month off of work, claiming that he was off to visit family in America.

Hermione knew Tom didn't have any family in America, but feigned understanding, and left. Now, she was preparing to ask Harry to look into his records at the Ministry and see if Tom had actually filed for a magical passport to America. She knew Harry wasn't supposed to do so without explicit permission from his uppers, but he'd done so anyway as a favor to her. His father, James Potter,  _was_ the head of the Auror department, after all, and she couldn't imagine Harry getting into too much trouble for it. As much as she hated special treatment herself, much less the special treatment of others, she couldn't exactly deny that it was working in her favor in this instance.  _If_ Harry would investigate it for her.

So, on her last day of work before taking maternity leave, she'd asked Harry to come to her office for lunch. He'd offered to buy, and she let him. They did this every so often, taking turns buying some random cuisine that neither of them knew much about. Today, he'd brought them each a beef gyro from a Greek restaurant in muggle London. She'd thought it was interesting how Harry seemed to be fascinated by the muggle world, even though he'd grown up in the magical world. His mother, Lily, was muggleborn, and she imagined that Lily had told Harry all about her time in the muggle world. Harry was a curious wizard, but rarely acted on this particular interest because he didn't like to be restricted from his use of magic. Food was different for him, though. He'd told her that food was something he could order quickly, and while he waited for his food to be ready, he would watch the muggles. He'd told her all about these gadgets they had, cell phones, which could call from long distances. He'd compared it to their Patronus charm.

She'd known all about this, of course, because her parents were muggles, but she'd let him go on and on. It wasn't in her character to let someone rant about things she knew about, but she understood that this was Harry's way of connecting with his muggle heritage, and she wasn't about to rain on his parade. Especially when she was about to ask him to do something quite illegal for her.

"Harry," she started as she took a bite of her gyro, resisting the urge to groan in delight at the taste of it, "I think I might know where Tom is."

"Really? Where?" he replied, leaning over his plate as he took the first bite of his own food. "Wow, this is really good, isn't it?" She nodded her agreement before she continued. "I… well, I went by Mr. Burke's shop after I left Tom's house, and—"

"Hermione!" he exclaimed, giving her a stern look. He chewed and swallowed his bite before he continued what she knew to be a lecture on how dangerous Knockturn Alley was. "I've told you before, if you want to go somewhere in Knockturn, you should ask me to accompany you. You know how shady that place is."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes Harry, I know. I'm quite capable of taking care of myself, you know. Now can I finish?"

After another stern look over a bite of his gyro, Harry nodded.

"Well, Mr. Burke told me that Tom had asked for nearly a month off of work. Said Tom wanted to go visit some family in America—"

"—but Tom doesn't have any living family members." Harry finished for her, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "So, what do you want me to do? We can't exactly go searching for him. We have responsibilities, you know."

"Well, it's not—we can't, well, we can't search for him, sure, but we can…" she trailed off, waiting for him to catch on.

He looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to finish her thought. Suddenly, his eyes lit with shock after he understood just exactly what she was proposing. He shook his head, "No. No. Sorry, Hermione, I can't. It's a violation of privacy to do so without reasonable cause, and just wanting to know where he's at isn't a reason that my department will accept. I can't risk this job—"

"Harry, do you honestly think your father will let you be kicked off the force for something as silly as checking a passport record? You're one of the best damn Auror's to ever work for the British Ministry! France's Ministry has been pining for you, you know. They've offered a good bit of galleons to have you transferred—"

Harry held up a hand, effectively silencing her. "Wait," he replied, "how did you know that?"

Hermione shrugged. "Perks of being friends with someone in the Finance department, I suppose." She took another bite of her food, sighing in delight. One thing she loved about pregnancy was how much she enjoyed food. Her taste buds felt like they'd been amplified, along with her sense of smell. It was hellish at first, of course, when she could barely stomach the smell of oranges without puking her guts up. But now that she was further along, it seemed to work in her favor when she ate things she enjoyed.

"Well, regardless, I still can't risk it. I mean, even if you take me out of the picture, can you imagine how my dad would feel? He put his neck out for me, giving me a high-level security clearance, and—"

Hermione put her mostly eaten gyro down on her plate, causing Harry to stop. He sighed, looking at her with mock disdain in his eyes. She knew it wasn't real, because this was Harry, one of her best friends. But she also knew she was asking him to do something that was quite possibly career-ending if anyone ever found out. No, it didn't sound serious, but the Ministry had cracked down on citizens privacy after they'd been berated by the community for searching homes for dangerous magical texts and artifacts. Dolores Umbridge had been the one to start the initiative, stating that it was imperative to the safety of the magical community to ensure that there would never be another Grindelwald.

A lot of Ministry officials were all for it at first, especially those who were apart of the Department of Mysteries, excited to be able to study long forgotten magical artifacts that had been passed down generationally. One of those artifacts, the Cloak of Invisibility, which was an heirloom of the Potter family, was a hot topic at the time. It was after someone had discovered that Grindelwald had, in fact, had the Elder Wand at some point, and after a lengthy interrogation, they'd eventually figured out that it was now in the possession of Albus Dumbledore. Once they figured that the story of the three brothers in the Beetle and the Bard wasn't just a children's bedtime story, they'd begun a search to find the Deathly Hallows under the guise of "keeping one wizard from becoming the Master of Death." It angered too many magical families, and eventually, they'd ceased their search.

Harry's father, James, had been very vocal about the new legislation that protected magical family heirlooms, regardless of their magical affiliation to light or dark magic. "If it becomes a problem," he'd said, "we'll fix it. That's what my department's for, after all."

And so, she knew that even if a simple passport wasn't much to them, it was a big thing to the Ministry,  _especially_ Harry's dad. "Harry," she started, "you know I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was necessary. I just—I just want to know when he will be back so I can fix this. I've made a right mess of things, and—"

 

"Hermione, you haven't made a mess of anything. You were just doing what you thought was right. I—to be honest with you, I've begun to think that you were right. I was positive that he would come around, try to talk to you again. But he's been gone for nearly a month, Hermione. He—he's not in it; he's not committed. Even if you're ready to accept him not loving her, can you really accept  _this_? Leaving for a month and telling no one the specifics of where you're going, even with the knowledge that you have a child on the way, and—"

"In all fairness, I told him that he would never see her. Maybe he just didn't think anyone would care if he left for a month. But Harry, I… I would really appreciate this. I know that it's a lot to ask, especially with the political climate surrounding security and whatnot—" her voice got lower as she spoke, and she cast a none verbal silencing charm around her office to ensure that they would not be overheard, "—but this is important. You know I would never ask you for something like this if it wasn't."

Harry finished the last few bites of his gyro, regarding her quietly. He sighed quite a few times, opening his mouth as if he were about to say something before snapping it shut, deeming it the wrong thing to say. Finally, after several moments of silence, he spoke up in a low voice.

"Fine. I'll see what I can do. It goes without saying that this stays between us, and that if I do this for you… you need to make the best of it. You're right, I know you wouldn't ask this of me if it wasn't important. You're too damn selfless for that." He chuckled, and she couldn't help the thrill of triumph she felt as he agreed.

"Thank you, Harry. I owe you one." She stood then, and so did he as he vanished his empty plate of food into nonbeing.

She gave him a warm hug, and he returned it. He chuckled at her sentiment, patting her on the back. "I'll be sure to remember that when I'm out shopping for a gift for Gin next holiday."

She groaned inwardly at this, thinking of her own hatred for shopping. But if that's all he required of her, was some help shopping for Ginny on her birthday, or their anniversary, or Christmas or Valentine's day, she would take it. "I'll be happy to help."

A few days after she'd asked, Harry had told her that Tom did, in fact, file for a magical passport and was most certainly in America. She'd been quite confused by this information, because she knew for a fact that Tom didn't have any living relatives. Maybe he was just researching some magical artifact, some relic of dark magic or something? She couldn't be sure. Harry had told her that maybe she'd been mistaken, maybe Tom did have family in America that he'd recently found out about.

If Harry was right, she could only hope that these family members didn't meet the same fate as Tom's other family members had. Harry had also told her that his return date was fast approaching. He'd be home tomorrow.  _Tomorrow._

She didn't have much time to prepare for this talk now, and she was back to feeling conflicted over it. She didn't know how he would react. Would he jump at the opportunity? Would he shun her away and tell her that he'd realized that she was right, that he shouldn't be involved? She fought with another question, one that itched at the back of her mind. Should she tell him about what she'd been told by the mediwitches she'd seen months ago? If she did, he'd certainly be cross with her for not telling her when they'd last spoken, because she'd known about it then. But she didn't want her child to be taken advantage of for her potential. It wasn't fair to the child, and it wasn't fair to her. She knew she was being selfish, but she couldn't help it. She didn't want their child to be like Tom, not completely. If she inherited his magical abilities, his thirst for knowledge, his intelligence or his annoying ability to absorb information the first time around and excel at it, she would be okay with that.

She wouldn't be okay with her child developing a longing for the Dark Arts. Tom excelled at it, so wouldn't it stand to reason that her child would, too? What would that lead to? What—

She stopped herself suddenly as a rather annoying inner voice began to speak.

_That isn't up to you,_ the voice told her,  _that's up to her. She will have to decide that for herself. And besides, Tom didn't have his mother's family, Slytherin's blood, around him. He still delved into the Dark Arts. Why would you think that not having her father around would stop her if she wanted to do explore it, when it didn't stop him?_

Tears began to form in her eyes as she realized just how  _right_ the voice (which sounded suspiciously like Tom's) was. Tom had grown up without his mother and father, and he'd still found an interest in the Dark Arts. Maybe—maybe if her child witnessed her father—maybe  _that_ would be what kept her from it. But then, wasn't it her job as a mother to protect her child's innocence? She shook herself out of the thought as quickly as it had come. Tom wouldn't be daft enough to perform dark magic around their child. He hadn't performed it around her, after all, but she was able to sense it because she knew what to look for. She knew the line between light and dark. But all their daughter would see is magic. Shiny, interesting magic. So what if—

_What if what if what if—_

_You can't protect her from what ifs._ The voice told her lightly,  _you can only educate her and hope that she doesn't follow that path. She may be what keeps him straddling the line between light and dark—_

_But that's not her job._ Hermione thought back angrily,  _she's just a child, she's—_

_Innocent._ The voice mussed,  _Yes, yes, I know. She is innocent; you are correct. But look at how she's changed your life already, and she's not even here yet. Can you imagine how she would change his, if given the chance?_

 

Hermione huffed in frustration, lying back on her bed in defeat. She couldn't argue with that logic. Her own logic, really. She had to do this. She owed it to herself, to Tom, and to their child. She  _had_ to at least try.

She felt a flurry of movement in her stomach, and she smiled softly as her hand came down to rest on her belly. "What do you say, little one?" she whispered, pushing her white t-shirt back so she could lay her hand on her belly. She loved to do this, the skin on skin contact. Even though it was her own skin, she could feel the thrum of magic radiating from her enlarged uterus under her skin. She could feel her. "D'you think we should go have another talk with your father?"

She felt a particularly strong kick at this, and she chuckled lightly. She knew, yet again, that it wasn't a real “yes,” but that's what she needed to hear, so she pretended that it was.

She drifted asleep, sleeping soundly for the first time in a long time that night.


	4. Chapter 4

**In This Moment**

_"Every book is a quotation; and every house is a quotation out of all forests, and mines, and stone quarries; and every man is a quotation from all his ancestors." – Ralph Waldo Emerson_

* * *

 

**Chapter Four**

 

Tom could barely contain the excitement he felt as he stepped out of the International Travel Floo. He'd been to other countries on business for Mr. Burke to collect rare, dark artifacts, of course, but he'd never traveled for his own leisure or research. This opportunity was different, and it excited him. He schooled his features as he took in his surroundings. He knew where he'd Floo too, as one of the employees of the Department of International Travel had told him—he was in the heart of the American Ministry building, in New York City, no less. They didn't call it a Ministry here in America, though. It was the Magical Congress of the United States of America; MACUSA for short. That was about as helpful as the Department of International Travel had been, though, and he'd had to do a good bit of research himself. Not that he minded.

Americans called nonmagical people no-majs, short for 'no magic', rather than muggles. He knew that some of their laws were slightly different, and they were much stricter about magical use than the Ministry at home, if that were even possible. Another rule that he found odd was that their age for alcohol consumption was 21 instead of 17. Tom wasn't much of a drinker, and although he was of age here, he still found it odd and unnecessary. He'd read something about the decision being made based off of a group of muggle studies in a subject called psychology. He'd snorted at the thought of it. Americans seemed much more wary of muggles than the British, and yet, they based laws off of studies done by them. He found it to be quite strange.

His random thoughts about Magical American laws aside, he plastered a charismatic smile on his face as he withdrew his magical passport from his pocket. He was being ushered into a line by a large man in an all-blue uniform. He assumed that this man was security of some sort; maybe an Auror? No. They wouldn't have Aurors doing something as trivial as this.

He continued to move forward in line until it was finally his turn to have his passport checked. A smaller man in the same blue uniform the man who'd ushered him in line wore stuck his hand out, and Tom placed the passport in it.

"Tom Riddle?" the man questioned, an eyebrow raised up at him.

"Yes, sir." Tom replied politely.

"Wand." The man stated simply as he held out his other hand.

Tom reluctantly handed over his wand. He hated not having his wand on him, let alone surrendering it to someone, but he knew that this was all part of the procedure. The man waved his own wand over Tom's, likely checking the magical signature to be sure it matched.

The man sent a practiced smile his way as he handed Tom his passport and wand back. "Enjoy your time here in America."

Tom thanked the man and briskly made his way through the building. He needed to get Massachusetts. After months of research, he'd traced his lineage back to a woman named Isolt Sayre, who apparently fled to America after her aunt, Gormlaith Gaunt, abused her for years after killing Isolt's family. He'd found the journal of Gormlaith Gaunt in his uncle Morfin's home, and he shivered at the thought of growing up with that woman.

 

He was cruel, sure, but he wasn't quite  _that_ cruel. Maybe in a different life. Gormlaith's journal didn't have much in the way of family and it wasn't very sentimental. The contents seemed to be geared towards keeping information than anything else. Anyway, Gormlaith eventually found out where Isolt fled to, and she'd written the approximate location in her journal. Massachusetts wasn't a state back in the 1600s, but she'd managed to trace Isolt down after Isolt became the founder of America's wizarding school and named herself Headmistress. Isolt didn't go by her real name, of course, but rather a nickname her father had given her, Morrigan. Gormlaith had remembered that bit of information and tracked her down.

At that point, it was just a matter of finding out where Ilvermorny was located. It proved easy enough, considering the professors of Hogwarts and Ilvermorny shared new magical information, spells and potions with each other now and again at an international magical conference. Slughorn had given up the information easily enough.

Although he wasn't able to find out the exact location of the school, he was able to figure out a general location with the information Slughorn had given him combined with the little information available to British wizards via libraries and such. The school was relatively secretive, and for good reason. Part of the American Statute of Secrecy was to vow to never give up the exact location of the school in order to prevent foreign or domestic Scourers from invading the property or giving the location away to muggles who intended to repeat the infamous Salem Witch Trials. That plan wasn't fail proof, of course, considering one with magic may attend school at Ilvermorny and grow to have Scourer ideals. Tom sneered at the thought of a wizard or witch betraying his or her own kind to muggles. While it was very obviously an idea that disgusted him, he also couldn't help but to think how idiotic one would have to be to do such a thing. What would he or she think muggles would do with him or her after they found out that he/she had magic? Did they think the muggles would give them some sort of medal rather than burn them with the rest of magical society? Tom scoffed at that. What a waste of precious magic.

But he didn't have time to think of that now. He was here for a purpose. He wanted to learn more about this distant branch of his family; for himself  _and_ for his child. He knew that this branch was of Gaunt descent, even though they leaned on the more… diplomatic side of things when it came to muggles. Isolt married a muggle man and founded Ilvermorny with him, for Merlin's sake! Of course, after MACUSA was more stable and became well respected as a form of government for the magical people of America, they'd implemented the stipulations that made the location of the school obscure and secretive, but still. A distant family member, a Gaunt, had created a magical school with a muggle. As Tom continued through the halls of MACUSA, intent on meeting his contact to travel via Portkey close to the Ilvermorny school grounds, he laughed at the thought. How ironic that a Gaunt would marry a muggle, and create a magical school with said muggle. That muggle must've been one of kind in his time. Or maybe he was feeding information to other muggles in subtle ways. Regardless, Tom was interested, and he hoped that there was someone living near the school that might know something about Isolt. He wanted to know  _more._

Was she magically talented like him? She must've been to create a school. Did she have descendants—not distant like him, but descendants directly from her? Regardless of what views they held regarding muggles (he certainly wasn't a blood purist, but from what he learned about the school and the ideals of the founder, Isolt, he was much more cautious of muggles and the threat that parents of muggle-borns posed to magical society,) they were still… family. Related to him, no matter how distantly. He'd never been one to care much about family, not in the sentimental sense at least. He was only interested in what people could offer him.

But his daughter might feel differently.

His daughter might be like Hermione—sentimental, and she might want to be able to connect with her family, no matter how distant they might be. He'd taken that chance from her with his father's side, but he didn't feel the slightest bit regretful over that. He didn't want his daughter to feel the same rejection that he felt when he'd approached his father and his grandparents. He didn't want the rejection to fuel the rage in her, as it had him. He didn't want her to be tainted with the blood of a relative.

He didn't want her to be a monster like he was.

But, he did want her to be powerful, and though Tom was a powerful wizard and Hermione a powerful witch, he knew that these people—if anyone from Isolt's line was still living—might have knowledge that he didn't. Knowledge he could use for his own gain. Knowledge he could pass on to his daughter.

And so, after he'd found out about this branch of his family, he'd decided that he must do everything possible to investigate and to create a relationship. No, relationship sounded too sentimental. He—he needed to make these people into contacts, yes. Contacts that he could call upon if his daughter asked about his family. Someone he could introduce her to. Maybe—maybe this would prevent her from ever seeking out information about  _his_ parents. His useless mother, who died after giving birth to him, leaving him to fend for himself at an orphanage filled with people who hated him for being special. His filthy father, his  _muggle_ father who dared to speak to him as if he were a  _thing_ and not a person, who hated him for being different just like the occupants of the orphanage. No. He didn't want her to know anything about them. But the chances of a child of his and Hermione’s  _not_  being curious about her father's parents were slim to none, so he reluctantly filed that thought away for later.

He rounded the corner of the MACUSA building, wand safely tucked away. He wasn't wearing a robe because he needed to blend into his surroundings. The idea of having to appear average was irritating, but he was willing to do what he had to do to stay on MACUSA's good side. And mainly, willing to do what he had to do to keep himself from being arrested. His wand was stashed away in the pocket of his jeans—the pocket lengthened by a modified extension charm he'd learned from Hermione.

_Hermione._

Just thinking about her sent chills down his spine. He certainly could admit that he had feelings for her—if he didn't, he wouldn't have considered the prospect of courting her in the first place, but he couldn't get over how she'd embarrassed him in Diagon Alley that day. He wanted to make amends with her, and she'd thrown it in his face. His attempt to be civil led nowhere, and though he was sure that Hermione would come around eventually, his pride was still hurt. He knew she wouldn't stay like this—she couldn't. Her Gryffindor tendencies wouldn't let her. The guilt would eat at her until she eventually tried to make contact with him and come to some sort of agreement about their daughter and a schedule for him to see her. She would. He knew she would.

He _hoped_ she would.

He stopped in front of a street sign that indicated his arrival to his first destination. He took a right like the instructions he'd received told him to. He ended up at the dead end of an alley way, and he looked around to see if there were any muggles around. There weren't, so he muttered the incantation to conceal himself completely. Then, he unsheathed his wand and tapped on the wall in front of him twice as he'd been told to. He watched expectantly, waiting for the wall to magically separate and create a walkway. A few minutes passed by and nothing happened.

His irritation was just starting to turn to anger (who _dared_ to waste his time like this?) when he was suddenly being grabbed roughly by his arm and pulled somewhere. His gut reaction was to fight, and he started to pull his arm away from his assailant and reach for his wand. As he did, his assailant, a man around his size with dirty blonde hair and a very prominent nose, lifted a finger to his lips as if to shush Tom. This only angered him more, and he reared his fist back—

"Are ya nuts?!" the man suddenly hissed at him in an odd accent as he continued to pull on Tom's arm. "I was told you needed a Portkey! Just let me—"

"Wait," Tom said in a low voice, "you're the—"

"Yes, ya dimwitted bafoon! Now come on and put your wand away, before you get us both killed by the no-majs or worse, imprisoned by MACUSA!" and with that, the man continued to pull on Tom's arm until they entered a building through a door that Tom was positive hadn't been there before.

As soon as the man shut the door behind him, he whirled around and looked at Tom with a positively murderous expression on his face. He poked Tom in the chest with a finger, "I dunno how you Brits do it, but here in New York, a grown man pointin' a wand at another gets you killed. Boom. Dead. No more. That simple enough for ya, kid?"

Tom let out an angry breath. "I don't need you to simplify anything for me. You have the nerve to—"

The man's face went rather blank of emotion suddenly, and he waved a hand at Tom. "We don't have time for this, kid. You need a Portkey, or no?"

Tom pursed his lips. He usually wouldn't let someone get away with talking to him in such a way, and although he was sure that he could torture this man and Obliviate him with no issue, he had no idea who was in this building or if someone was watching. Worse—he needed his wand to cast the torture curse, and unfortunately, MACUSA took international travelers rather seriously. They were tracking his wand and any spell casting done with it. He couldn't risk it. He didn't think traveling to a different part of the country was too suspicious, as he was sure that it was common for wizards and witches from different parts of the world to travel via International Floo and then visit family somewhere aside from New York. Plus, he'd told them which state he planned on visiting, so he was giving them enough information to keep them happy. But if he were to cast an Unforgiveable, there's no telling what could happen. He wasn't prepared to take that on.

Not yet, at least. So he nodded his head stiffly, and allowed the strange man to lead him to the back of the building—a flat, he assumed.

"Name's Timmy. Don't worry, I'm licensed to do this through MACUSA. But we gotta be careful about how we do this, 'specially in New York. Not from here originally, I'm from the South—can probably tell that by the accent. Not many people there need the services I offer. Not enough, anyway." The man, Timmy, unlocked a dark wooden door before leading Tom through it.

He looked pointedly at Tom, "Now look, kid, things might be different in the U.K., or wherever you're from—sorry, I gotta bad memory, kid—but we don't risk no-majs knowin' anything. Can't, see? If they ever found out—" the man turned to look pointedly at Tom, "—well, you're smart enough to know. Or maybe not, seein' as how you pulled your wand out. Point is, can't go around doin' that in America. Our wizardin' community's a bit bigger than yours, so our enforcement works differently. We got regional sectors of small governments that branch down from MACUSA. They're all strict, but they handle things a bit differently from one another. So I suggest you keep your wits about ya and don't do nothin' stupid like what you just pulled out there."

Tom nodded once, sending a small, forced smile towards Timmy. "Thank you for the advice, Timmy. Now, the Portkey…"

Timmy looked as if Tom reminded him of something he'd forgotten, and he swore as he ran a hand through his hair. "My bad, kid. I get to talkin' sometimes; just gets away from me." He lead Tom into the office behind the locked wooden door, and Tom stood by the door as Timmy walked around the edge of the beat up, chipped desk. He opened a small, jewelry sized box and handed it to Tom. It revealed a small card that almost looked like one of those new keys the muggle inns were starting to use. It puzzled him slightly, considering that wizards in Britain tended to use much more random items like articles of clothing. It seemed a bit more… fitting, maybe? He wasn't sure.

"Now, I'm sure you folks know how a Portkey works, right? It'll activate in a few moments and take ya where you're goin'. It'll activate again in 72 hours on the dot. Be sure you—"

"I know how to use it, thank you." Tom bit out with a bit more disdain than he'd meant to.

Timmy raised an eyebrow at him. "Right. So, what's in Massachusetts, kid?"

"I have some distant relatives there." Tom answered simply. He turned his attention back to the card—the Portkey that would hopefully lead him towards some answers. Hopefully. It began to glow slightly around the edges. Tom looked up at Timmy, puzzled. "Is it ready?"

Timmy sighed in exaggerated annoyance. "Thought you said you knew how to use one of these, kid. Not sure how they work where you're from, but here we put a little charm on 'em that makes 'em glow to let you know when it's ready. Now, don't worry, there's no wards that'll keep you from goin' or worse, splinch ya. It'll bring you back here when it's time to head back."

Tom said nothing in response, completely disregarding the cheek the man continuously gave him. Hesitantly, he touched the Portkey. He disappeared in the blink of an eye.

* * *

 

**_One Month Later_ **

When she'd nervously knocked on the door, he'd opened it quickly, almost as if he knew it was her. But when he saw her, he froze, looking at her with shock etched into his features. He had said nothing, only moving to the side after a long moment of silence so that she could squeeze through the door way. Her arm had brushed against him, and she had shivered. It was downright embarrassing.  _Pregnancy hormones._ She'd absentmindedly taken a seat on the familiar grey couch, beside the wide bay window they used to sit magical plants on. That was one of the things she'd loved about Tom's apartment—the window allowed them to grow some of their own potions ingredients because of the light that filtered in through the bay window in the living room. She cast a glance at it, noticing that there were no longer plants there. She wondered if he'd simply stopped watering and feeding the plants.

"They died while I was away." Hermione all but jumped as his buttery smooth voice flitted across the room towards her ears. She stared at him in confusion before she understood that he'd watched her look at the platform on the window where the plants used to be.

"Oh." She muttered quietly, chancing a look at his eyes. He was no longer surprised to see her, but he looked positively murderous. She cast her eyes downward again, hands fidgeting nervously. She knew that he couldn't be happy with her—what with the scene in Diagon Alley and all. She'd publicly embarrassed him and practically rendered him speechless. She was threatening to keep his child away from him. She had left him, and he was all alone in the world again. He saw her as a threat.

Hermione knew what Tom tended to do with threats.

She cleared her dry throat, wishing that she could will herself to get up and get a glass of water. But she found that she couldn't move. She was held in place by the sheer guilt she felt when she looked at him. She knew he was hurt. Anyone would be. But she had only been doing what she thought was right. Surely he'd understand, right? She could only hope.

"I—I'm sorry, Tom." It was all she could bring herself to say. A pregnant pause enveloped them after he drew in a sharp breath. Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet his, and she found that his eyes were much softer than before, but still guarded. He swallowed loudly.

"Hermione, I—" he stopped, shaking his head in such a small movement that she wasn't sure it had actually happened at all, "I don't intend to hurt you, or her. I just—I wanted a chance to be involved, you know. My father wasn't—" he looked at her with an emotion she couldn't quite place, and she grimaced. "—he didn't care about me. When—when I went to see him, I was just curious, you know. I didn't plan to—I didn't plan for what happened to happen. I didn't think he'd—but when he did, I knew he deserved it. No child should be made to feel unwanted, and my filthy muggle father deserved what he got for making me feel  _weak._ He made me feel  _worthless,_ just for a moment, but he did. And—well, do you want to know something, Hermione?" He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees as he stared at her from his seat on the armchair across from her.

 

 She said nothing, but he continued, "You—you made me feel the same way, that day. I—when you left, it  _hurt._ Not in a physical way; it was the most curious thing. I didn't recognize it at first, but after contemplation, I realized I'd felt it before. I'd only felt that one other time in my life, and it was when I confronted my father. Heartache, from being rejected by the only two people who I've longed for acceptance from." He took a deep breath then, as if he were relieved to finally say that to her. Still, she said nothing, mainly because she didn't know  _what_ to say. "I was not very welcoming of the news, I know." He acknowledged as he ran a hand through his previously perfectly styled dark hair, "I know that I've made this difficult for you. As much as it pains me to admit it, I don't blame you, Hermione. In fact, I agreed with you at some point. At multiple times, really. But you of all people should know that I don't deal with emotions well. I don't  _like_ emotion. It makes you do the most irrational things, and—and I hate being irrational. But I—we have responsibilities, now, and I will not shy away from them. I want to be there, Hermione." He finished, his expression morphing from relief to stoic in a fraction of a second. And although Hermione could sympathize with him, she found herself getting agitated, because once again, he was making it all about him. It was in a different way, more genuine than she'd seen before, but it still came down to him. She was silent for several moments as she considered what to say.

 

"Tom," she started, her voice wavering under the pressure she was feeling. "I'm sorry that I made you feel that way. But, you have to understand, as a mother, my job is to protect her. And this—this emotionless façade that you adopt when you can't handle an emotion, well, you can't do that with a child. Well, you can, I guess, but you shouldn't. She needs you to show emotion. Maybe—maybe not to everyone else, but to  _her._ She needs to see you being human, Tom. Humans make mistakes, and that's okay. We both—" she bit her lip, willing the tremors that came before tears to go away. "—we've both made mistakes. But she deserves better, Tom. We have to do better."

An uncomfortable silence overcame the room again. Neither of them dared to breath, both intently studying the other, as if studying their motives.

Tom knew that Hermione felt guilty for this. He was grateful that she came around before the child was born, but he planned for that scenario, too. Of course, most of what he'd said was true, but he did blame her. She was the cause of all of this emotional scuffle that he hadn't allowed himself to deal with since he'd met his father. She single handedly turned his world upside down, shook it up, and turned it right side up again, expecting him to adjust to the sudden changes immediately. It was her fault. All of it. He couldn't tell her that, because he couldn't ruin this. He knew this child would be powerful, and altogether, an asset to him. Hermione was also an asset to him, and he couldn't risk letting his emotions getting in the way of fixing this. He needed to have an influence on her, and on their child. His motives weren't purely selfish, or at least, he didn't think so. He didn't want his daughter to grow up without her father like he had. And, he had figured that if there was one person that he could bestow affection and, possibly love, on… it would be his own child. So, he'd decided that he would try, not just for his own motives, but because his child deserved as much.

Hermione watched as Tom processed what she had told him, and was only a little surprised when a playful smirk took over his strikingly handsome features.

"Now that that ridiculously uncomfortable conversation has concluded, shall we begin discussing us?"

Hermione couldn't help it as her mouth fell open in shock. Us?  _Us_? He—he wanted to—

No. She hadn't planned for this. She didn't think he'd even speak to her, let alone—

But why wouldn't she plan for this? It was only logical. Of course, she hadn't been running on much logic lately. Pregnancy had a funny way of throwing each and every logical thought she'd ever had out the door and replacing them with new, anxiety-ridden thoughts of emotion and what if this, what if that.

"Us?" she repeated in a small, shaky voice, and his face immediately fell. "I only thought it was best if we try—"

She shook her head, stopping the apology that she knew was coming. Tom was a lot of things, but he wasn't someone who was going to try to force her into a relationship she didn't want. She didn't think so, anyway. "That's not—I just wasn't expecting you to ask about… us."

He sighed lightly, and Hermione knew that he was relieved to hear her say something other than no. "I just think that… well, we were fine before the news and we should try to—"

"I agree." She cut him off before he could finish, not wanting to force him into yet another awkward conversation where he tried to explain his feelings and his hatred of his feelings to her.

"You do?" He whispered, almost to himself than to her, but she nodded in affirmation nonetheless.

Unbeknownst to Hermione, Tom was thrilled. Well, she may have guessed that he was thrilled, but she couldn’t only possibly know that he was thrilled about this in more ways than one. He had imagined having to wiggle his way back into her life if he wanted anything other than a platonic relationship with her, but no. She was full of surprises today, and he was loving it.

His lips slowly peeled back into a lopsided grin. "Well then, should we discuss living arrangements?"

Hermione huffed, suddenly feeling much more comfortable now that the harder parts of this conversation were over. "Sure. My flat's much bigger than this, so I suppose you'll have to move in with me. Not immediately, though. We should work up to that."

Tom scoffed, and Hermione had to admit that she was relieved to see him acting more like himself. He crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned back into the charcoal grey recliner. "Hermione, you're pregnant. I think we've 'worked our way up' to living together again."

She couldn't exactly argue with that, but she couldn't really see the practicality of getting back together and moving in together all on the same day. But there again, nothing about them was really practical, despite their individual tendencies towards being practical. "I guess you have a point."

"Splendid. I'll shrink my things and then we can leave."

Even though she was quite happy about the turn of events, she couldn't help but feel like Tom wasn't really acting like himself. Well, he was, in one sense. He was back to his smart-arse, sarcastic, prideful ways, but he usually liked to hold a grudge. Why was he suddenly so excited to live with her again? "What's the excitement all about then, Tom?" she asked before she could help herself. He rolled his eyes at her, and she clarified. "This isn't like you."

"What's not like me? Am I not allowed to be happy about living with my family?"

Hermione's heart squeezed at the notion of Tom considering her family, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something was  _off._ "Of course you're allowed to be happy about being with your… family. But this—not being angry for days before coming around, is not like you."

"Hermione, I've had months to be angry with you. Believe me, I was. It hasn't gotten me very far, has it?" He rose an eyebrow at her as he stalked through the kitchen and into the hallway that led to the lone bedroom of his flat. She followed him, curious to see if anything had changed about this place since she'd left months ago. He opened his dresser, nonverbally shrinking his clothing and dropping each piece into his work bag. He continued with this until he'd shrunk and stashed every piece of clothing and every book he owned. He went into the bathroom, dropping his toiletries into the bag unceremoniously without shrinking them.

He looked down at her, his notorious smirk on his lips. "Let's be on our way, then."

* * *

 

It had only been a few days, but Hermione still wasn't sure how she felt about living with Tom again. On one hand, it felt as if she'd gained some sort of normalcy again. It felt normal; it felt  _right._ On the other hand, she just couldn't shake the feeling that there was something off about Tom. She couldn't pinpoint what it was, exactly, but she knew there was something different. She wondered if it was just that she'd grown used to living on her own again, or, not entirely on her own, but, well—

The complexities of _being_ while pregnant aside, she wasn't sure where it came from. She just knew there was something different. She tried to shake it off, deciding to worry about it at a different time as she looked up at him from her seat on the couch. He'd just come home from work, and he was soaking wet. She'd guessed it had been raining, but she couldn't help the smug grin that decorated her features.

"Have you forgotten that you're a wizard, Tom?" she remarked, her grin widening further as his already dreary facial expression turned into somewhat of a mock sneer.

"Have you forgotten that you're on your fifteenth tub of ice cream, Hermione?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, "I'm pregnant, Tom.  _Heavily_ pregnant, if you haven't noticed. Ice cream comes with the territory."

"Trust me, I've noticed." Tom muttered as he waved his wand over himself. Suddenly, he was dry. He flicked it lazily towards the trail of water he'd created when he'd walked into the flat, causing the water to evaporate into the tip of his wand. Hermione decided to let his smart remark go for now.

Tom opened his mouth to say something—probably to ask about whether or not Hermione would like something more substantial to eat than strawberry ice cream, but a distinct kick from inside her womb drew his attention. His eyes widened slightly as he started at her protruding stomach, covered in a thin, cotton t-shirt. They widened further when the first kick was followed by another, and another and another. Hermione put a hand over her mouth to keep herself from giggling audibly. She couldn't believe that Tom—Tom Riddle, a man who knew so much about _so_ many subjects, topics and artifacts, magical and as much as he pained to admit it, muggle, seemed to know _nothing_ about human pregnancy, or at least movement during pregnancy.

She watched as he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly. "D—does that hurt, Hermione?"

A burst of laughter filled the air between them as Hermione doubled over. She didn't know how long she had been laughing, but in the time that she'd doubled over and gotten herself upright again, Tom was sitting beside her looking very concerned. This sent her into another fit of giggles, so much so that tears were beginning to stain her cheeks.

"Hermione? Hermione?" Tom's hand was at her chin, forcing her to look up at him. Her eyes were still squeezed shut as she tried to calm herself down, at least enough to answer his question so he didn't think she was in pain.

"No," Hermione breathed out, raising a hand to wipe the tears away. She was breathless from laughing, like she was breathless from walking a few feet these days. "No, Tom, it doesn't hurt. Not at all. Did you think babies stayed still while in the womb?"

Tom's brow furrowed as he realized that  _he_ was the object of her amusement. She could tell that it bothered him, and she almost burst into laughter again at the thought of it, but decided that he'd endured enough embarrassment for the day. "I—I don't know. I didn't think they moved enough for us to  _see_ it. I never thought I'd have children, so I never thought to research that far into pregnancy aside from the basics."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Tom could be so arrogant at times. Movement of the baby  _was_ one of the basics of the later stages of pregnancy. Instead of informing him of this, she decided that he'd benefit from something more practical. "Would you like to feel it?"

Tom's eyes lit up with curiosity at this. "Feel her move?"

Hermione nodded as much as she could with his hand on her chin. "Yes. That, and, well—during the later stages of pregnancy of a magical child, you can sometimes feel a bit of their magic, too." She thought that was a decent enough explanation for it, since he obviously didn't know much about pregnancy in the first place. Hopefully he wouldn't feel inclined to do more research on the topic since she was offering to show him, since that wasn't exactly a normal part of pregnancy—magical or nonmagical.

His hand fell from her chin and hovered tentatively over her stomach. He looked at her with wide eyes, and she nodded her permission. She pulled her shirt over her belly with her free hand, smiling at his inquisitive expression. "It's—it's better to feel her this way. You can—" before she'd finished her sentence, he'd lightly placed his hand over her bare stomach. He gasped, pressing his hand more firmly over her belly. "She's—her magic is—it's—" he was rendered speechless yet again by Hermione, or, rather, by his daughter. Her magic was radiating through Hermione's skin. He'd never felt another woman's pregnant stomach before, but he'd read about magical pregnancies over the past several months. It was normal to feel a slight tickle when feeling a magical infant through the mother's lower abdomen, but this was more than a slight tickle. Much more. This felt like he was touching an open circuit, except it wasn't painful. It was exquisite, and it made him feel giddy.

They had created this. This child, who's magic was so apparent that you could literally feel her magic on her mother's skin! What a development, indeed. Tom's lips curled into a smirk, and Hermione smiled at him. "Isn't it so—"

"Wonderful?" he finished for her, his smirk turning into a genuine smile. Oh, this child would certainly be an asset to him. Not just magically and tactically, but politically speaking, too. Who didn't love children? Who didn't love the idea of a family man? "Yes, it is most certainly wonderful. She will be a talented witch, much like her mother."

His hand continued to rest on Hermione's belly, but his brow furrowed slightly as he watched her breathing quicken slightly. He moved his hand from her belly to her inner wrist. Her pulse rate was rather high, but not altogether strange for a pregnant woman. She seemed… nervous. Before he could make his inquiry, she spoke.

"Tom," she started cautiously, watching his eyes intently for any reaction. The only thing she saw was curiosity and maybe the slightest bit of worry. She knew that he would not be upset about the news, but she knew that telling him that his suspicions were, in fact, reality, was a scary thought. She could only hope that he wouldn't do anything reckless with this information. "During an appointment with the mediwitch, I was told that the baby was possibly syphoning magic from me. But after they ran a few tests, they concluded that it was not an incident of her syphoning magic, just that she was simply… powerful. More powerful than the average child. And… and they told me they'd only seen one other pregnancy like this." Hermione bit down hard on her lip, watching Tom's eyes lighten with a bit of understanding, but even more curiosity than before. She knew that Tom hated talking about his parents, so she could only hope that he wouldn't be angry with her. She initially wanted to keep this from him, but she figured it was better if she told him now than if he found out that she'd known all along once the baby was delivered.

"Did they tell you who? Maybe we can ask—you know, possibly find out more about—"

"Tom," Hermione interrupted carefully, watching Tom's face. "It—it was your mother. The only other pregnancy they'd ever seen like this was your mother, her pregnancy with you."

Hermione watched as Tom processed this information, and she couldn't help the shock that overcame her when the most glorious, mischievous smirk crept on his lips. She wasn't sure what type of reaction she'd expected from him, but this certainly wasn't it. "Well," he replied, slinging an arm around her shoulder as his sly smirk transformed into a lopsided grin. "Like father, like daughter, I suppose."

Hermione couldn't help but feel the slight unease that crept through her at his reaction. She felt so confused by him, by herself and her own emotions. Why was she suddenly feeling uneasy? She hadn't wanted him to be upset by this information. Maybe it was just because he'd reacted differently than she'd initially planned for? This just wasn't like him, especially since she'd just admitted to withholding information from him.

He wasn't acting like the Tom she remembered, and she, for once, couldn't decide what to do about it. Before she could help herself, she said, "What is going on with you, Tom? This isn't like you. And don't lie to me." Her voice turned slightly harsh as she pointed a figure accusingly at him. "I will know if you do."

Tom's grin faded away, but he didn't look displeased by her inquiry. He looked much more serious as the faint smile lines around his mouth faded, his eyebrows drawn closer but in an almost unnoticeable way. "Hermione, you know better than anyone that I appreciate power. I am only rejoicing due to the good news. Our daughter will be powerful, and will likely prove to be a very competent witch. I believe that is something to be celebrated, wouldn't you agree?" His voice was silky smooth, light in tone on the surface.  _Happy_ , even—but the undertone to it almost made her flinch. He sounded… well, he sounded almost threatened. She didn't quite understand. He couldn't possibly mean to… no. She couldn't afford to stress herself out over such a silly notion. He just… she wasn't letting him be happy, she realized. Of course, their daughter's potential  _was_ something to celebrate, but then again, Hermione thought it was something to be concerned with, too. What if she used her potential to further nefarious ideals? What if—

"Hermione?"

She snapped her head back up to face Tom, having not realized that she'd been clenching her hands together tightly. "Yes?" her voice was a bit shaky as she spoke, but he didn't comment on it.

"Have you decided on a name yet?"

Hermione's eyebrows furrowed at the change of subject, but decided that it was best for now. She tried to suppress the memory of the last time he'd asked her that question with a barely concealed wince. She'd thought about names, yes, but she wasn't sure that she wanted to name her just yet. How could you name someone that you haven't seen yet? She knew that it was common to do so, of course, Ginny and Harry did it with Albus, and were doing so again with their second child—but she was one to overthink things, especially important things, like her child's name. "I thought it more feasible to wait until she's born to name her."

Tom's nose scrunched up a bit, but instead of retorting with a sarcastic remark like she'd expected him to, he simple said, "I suppose that fits you."

Hermione smirked and raised an eyebrow. "Why, Tom? Have any ideas?"

Tom's lips curled into a smirk that mirrored hers as he clasped his hands together on his lap. "Why, yes, Hermione. I do. Would you like to hear them?"

Hermione's smirk grew into a taunting grin. "No."

Tom huffed. "You're absolutely infuriating. Do you know that?"

Hermione stood, scooping up the container of strawberry ice cream that was sitting on the coffee table. "Well," Hermione started as she began to walk, or, more accurately, waddle into the kitchen, "soon enough, you'll have two infuriating witches to deal with, Tom."

Tom looked on her moving figure curiously as he watched yet another kick or punch push on the interior of her womb, making it visible to him, on the lower right side of her belly. If her movements were anything to go by, the baby would surely be feisty like her mother. Maybe even a Gryffindor—much as it pained him to admit it. He'd have to wait and see. Deciding that he couldn't come up with a satisfactory retort, he simply murmured, "Indeed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter of this fic will be posted either today or tomorrow. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr if you'd like. My handle there is mulbrst.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the FINAL chapter of In This Moment. I hope you all enjoy. Warning: somewhat graphic birth description. Please let me know your thoughts in the comments. I've really enjoyed writing this fic. It's been fun to write something different for this ship. Thank you all for sticking by me and supporting this fic. Again, here's chapter 5, the FINAL chapter! <3

**In This Moment**

_“Children reinvent your world for you._ _” – Susan Sarandon_

* * *

 

**Chapter 5**

 

Hermione knew something was up with Tom. She couldn’t explain how—she just _knew._ It was one of those gut feelings that one couldn’t simply explain away—nor could they push it aside and act like it was nonexistent. Ever since he’d moved back in with her, his personality seemed to do a complete one-eighty, in terms of his outlook on fatherhood.

He’d been going out to meet with Malfoy and his other “lackies,” as she preferred to call them, on occasion, but aside from that, he was either at work or with her. He seemed intent on keeping a keen eye on her—always wanting to feel her stomach under the guise of wanting to feel his own child move. She, being the soft-hearted woman that she was, would never say no to him, but she was beginning to suspect it was more than that.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what led her to question him one night after he’d come home from a meeting with his “friends.”

“Tom,” she’d started, sitting in an armchair that graced her flat’s living room. She was sure her body language gave _something_ away—Tom was most certainly observant, and she could see the flat, emotionless façade overtake his Grecian-like features as he took in her stance.

She was sitting, but her legs were crossed at her ankles on the floor and her arms were folded protectively over her belly. He knew that she knew—she wasn’t sure _what_ she knew, and that drove her absolutely bonkers, but she knew _something_ was up.

“Hermione—” he began, but eventually sighed, shrugging out of his work robes and placing them on the hook behind the front door. He routinely locked and warded the flat door—something they’d always done, even when she lived with him before she had fallen pregnant.

They were both cautious magical people. Likely for very different reasons, but still.

She stayed silent as he took his dragon-hide shoes off—a birthday gift from her a couple of years back, as she’d noticed that Tom liked practical gifts, and shoes of such a make were practical for him in several ways, one of the least important being work. Eventually, he made his way over to their couch, sitting very still, the emotionless look still upon his face. It was strange. He usually didn’t take the time to hide most emotions from her—she knew him well enough that it seemed he didn’t care, nor did he feel ashamed, to show true emotion to her. But today—today was different.

Because he knew that she knew something. She just wasn’t sure what it was, and obviously, neither was he.

“What’s going on with you?” the words escaped her mouth before her brain could catch on. That was much too vague. _Damn pregnancy brain._ She cursed herself inwardly, feeling a kick in her belly, likely a response to her inward comment. She briefly wondered if their daughter knew, too, but pushed the thought away. Their child may have been magically stronger than most other children, but she was still a baby within her mother’s womb. There’s no way she knew anything that was going on—the kick was likely a response to hearing her mother’s voice. Hermione was 39 weeks pregnant and due anytime now, according to her mediwitch midwife.

Tom initially stayed silent, deeming it the best option and thinking Hermione might drift off to a different topic as she often did, especially with her pregnancy hormones kicking in full force now that she was nearing the end of her third trimester—soon to give birth to the child— _their_ child. Their daughter. Once Tom realized she wasn’t going to let it go, he sighed exasperatedly.

“That’s a bit vague, don’t you think?” he knew that she knew how vague of a question it was, but he decided to press. She wasn’t going to get information from him without a fight—a verbal one, of course. “I’m fine, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m happy to be home with my intended, with the birth of our child coming any day now—”

“Sure, it was vague,” Hermione retorted, “but you knew exactly what I meant, so don’t act dense, Tom. Why have you suddenly taken an interest in us again after your month-long visit to America?”

Tom sighed lightly, crossing his left leg over his right knees, hands knitted together. A flash of annoyance crossed his face—a look that did not go amiss to Hermione, much as he’d have liked it to.

“The more honest you are with me, the better. You know that, Tom.”

“I travelled to America to visit some distant relatives of mine,” he started, staring down at his knitted hands. He felt—well, he couldn’t exactly place the emotion, not really. Was it… was it _guilt? Shame?_ He couldn’t place it, but continued anyway, “I found the descendants of a distant family member, Gormlaith Gaunt, a horrible, vile witch, and her niece, Isolt Sayre. Isolt… she founded Ilvermorny in America. I thought—I thought that if I could trace down some family members, no matter how distant, that our daughter wouldn’t be interested in—” he gritted his teeth, breathing in and out very slowly to keep his calm composure, “—in _my_ parents.”

Hermione registered his words, wanting to ask _so_ many questions, as her intellectual mind usually prompted her to, but one question stuck out above all of the rest. “Tom, we were not together during your travels to America. I’m hard pressed to believe that that was the sole reason for your presence there.”

Tom smirked in amusement at this, “Can’t get much past you, can I?” he muttered so lowly that she wasn’t sure that she was meant to hear what he’d said. “One of my most prized family heirlooms resided on the grounds of Ilvermorny.” He’d stated simply, and Hermione’s brows furrowed.

“What does this heirloom have to do with anything?”

“It was the other reason for my travel to America. To find the heirloom, I mean. Salazar Slytherin’s wand—only able to be reactivated by one who speaks Parseltongue.”

Hermione’s breathed hitched in her throat. She couldn’t believe the sheer _nerve—_

_“_ You said you were done dabbling in such dark magic. If—if that was the wand Gormlaith held, _Salazar_ himself held, why would you want it, anyway? What if it—what if it holds some magical property that over takes the mind and—and—” she swallowed the thought away, or at least, she tried to, “What if you try to harm me and the child… because of the allegiance of the wand? The wand has always been held by extreme blood purists, Tom. Why—why would you risk that?”

Tom couldn’t help but chuckle darkly at her words, “The wand is already in my possession, Hermione. It took some time—hence my being there for a month, to gather information on it’s whereabouts and how to retrieve it, but I did. It was buried by Isolt on Ilvermorny school grounds, and a tree—a snakewood tree, grew over the wand. Being able to speak Parseltongue allowed me to access the wand, though I’m not sure of what happened to the tree. My relatives—well, they weren’t happy to give away that type of information, but I coaxed it out of them.”

“Through what means, Tom?” Hermione felt herself getting angrier, searching for his wand to see if it was the same one he’d had before, or if it was, in fact, Salazar Slytherin’s own wand. “Did you torture it out of them? Did you—”

“I certainly didn’t torture it out of them. Hermione, MACUSA tracks Unforgivables to a wand, and then to the wizard or witch who owns the wand. I would _never_ be idiotic enough to torture someone in America—much less my own relatives.”

“You killed you father and your grandparents, didn’t you?” she questioned, her face getting red with anger, “So what do _relatives_ mean to you?”

Ignoring her question, Tom continued, “I told my relatives of my muggleborn intended, and the child that we’d conceived together. I told them that it was of the utmost importance that I retrieve the wand, as to ensure that no other Gaunt was able to get ahold of it. They knew I didn’t hold blood purist views as soon as they heard about _you.”_

“So—so you _used_ me, the idea of me, to _manipulate_ your ‘relatives’ you care so much about?” a dark sort of laughter overcame her. How could she be so _stupid?_ So _naïve?_ To think that Tom had truly changed in the slightest—but yet here he was, admitting to her his manipulation tactics of his relatives—relatives that he wanted their daughter to be able to call upon should she have questions about her lineage, since he robbed her of the only other relatives she’d had on his side on the continent. Her laughter soon turned to tears, and she was sobbing. Tom didn’t stop his story, though, and she was tempted to curse him. _Truly_ tempted. But, she’d asked. So she’d listen through her tears, through her hurt, to his ridiculous explanations.

Again, he ignored her question. “I decided that it would benefit me to have two witches of great power by my side. You, and our daughter. It would further my political goals, you see—and it would give me something I never had as a child… a… a—” he swallowed harshly, looking up at her finally, seeing her eyes puffy and red, “a family. I—I want to be there. I meant what I said, Hermione, I truly do—”

Hermione stood, her wand trained on him, anger clear on her features, hurt boring from her brown orbs into his deep jade ones. “You _used_ me, and you plan to _use_ her. I won’t allow it, Tom. You’ve fooled me one too many times. I suggest you leave, or I’ll—I’ll—”

Suddenly, Hermione felt a long, drawn out warmth from between her legs. She looked down, wand hand relaxed now as she faintly registered what was happening. Her—her water broke. _Now,_ of all times? She resisted the urge to scream as a particularly strong contraction overcame her, causing her to cringe and bend forward slightly.

“Hermione?” Tom’s voice was full of genuine concern, eyes wide with shock and fear at the sight before him, “W—what’s going on?”

“I’m going into labor,” she gritted out as another contraction made its presence known in her body, “I need—I need to go to St. Mungo’s! Now!”

Tom didn’t need to be told twice. “Is—is there anything we need to bring—”

“In the bedroom,” Hermione wheezed through panted breaths, in obvious pain, “My—my birthing bag. It’s—it’s a big, light purple bag and—UGH!” Another contraction, much stronger than the last few, passed through her body and she was close to tears.

Tom had never seen her like this before. In fact, he’d never seen _anything_ like this before. But he had to move. He willed himself to run into the master bedroom, spotting the lilac-colored bag and quickly slinging it over his shoulder. He ran back into the living room, finding a panting, pained Hermione with her hands on her knees, trying desperately to catch her breath. Could he floo from here? No—no, apparition was his best bet. He grabbed hold of Hermione and pictured St. Mungo’s as quickly and accurately as he could, and within seconds, they were swirled away.

 

* * *

 

 

 

They appeared in front of the double doors to St. Mungo’s and now Hermione was dry heaving along with everything else. He carried her through the double doors, unable to help himself as he yelled, “She—she’s in labor! My girlfriend is in labor! I need—” before he could finish his sentence, several mediwitches gathered round with a magical wheel chair and took Hermione out of his grasp. They began to wheel her away, while one mediwitch stayed behind to question him. “Around what time did she start having labor pains?”

Tom made to scratch his head, “I—I’m not sure. She—there was water _everywhere_ 10 minutes ago, and then she started screaming in pain. I—I grabbed the bag she told me to get—” he gestured to the bag still slung over his shoulder, “—and apparated us here to get her seen as quickly—”

“You apparated with a heavily pregnant witch who is in active labor?” the mediwitch scorned him, and he appeared befuddled. “Well, yes—anything else would’ve taken to lo—”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve quite possibly done, young man?” the mediwitch’s face was extremely serious, and he had an urge to curse her for speaking to him like he was still a school boy, but he stopped himself, “Apparation during labor can cause quite a few problems. The baby—he or she is likely in distress. Oh, Merlin! We have to act _now._ ” The mediwitch turned on her heel and scurried away from him, yelling the information he’d just given her to the other mediwitches tending to Hermione. Hermione’s yelps of pain had turned into shrill screams; the sound of it made him want to cringe. He—he had to help her. He turned to the wizard behind the reception desk, “Where did they take her? I want to—”

The wizard gave him a pitied look. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to be in the room, not at the moment, at least, but you can wait outside of the room if you’d like. Go on, young man.”

_You won’t be able to be in the room you won’t be able to in the room you won’t be able to be in the room_

Tom ran down the hall, tracing the sound of Hermione’s screams. He saw her through the small window of the room, hair drenched with sweat, vital signs sounding ridiculously off as the _beep beep beep beep_ of her heartrate became faster and faster—or was that the baby? He couldn’t tell. All he knew was there were at least five witches in the room tending to her, one of them seemingly calmer than the rest. The calmest witch noticed his presence and excused herself.

“Hello, Mr. Riddle.” The tall, honey-blonde witch greeted kindly, “My name is Mrs. Tilvion. I’m the attending physician to your wife. I was also the attending physician to your mother, at one point during her pregnancy with you.”

Tom faintly remembered Hermione mentioning this woman very vaguely, and he stilled himself, bowing his head slightly in respect. “Mrs. Tilvion, it’s a pleasure to meet you. How is—” he heard another scream and it made him _cringe_ “Hermione doing? And—and the baby?”

Mrs. Tilvion smiled sadly. “Mr. Riddle, I—I don’t want to upset you. But, this is looking very much like your own mother’s pregnancy with you. The baby’s magic is overwhelming Miss Granger’s magic—and the side-along apparition didn’t help,” she looked at him pointedly, “but, it has done nothing to make this situation too much worse or better, for that matter. At this point, we have to wait and see how her labor progresses.”

Tom swallowed audibly, an unfamiliar sensation creeping up in his eyes. Mrs. Tilvion noticed as tears began to form in his eyes, and she moved to pat him lightly on the shoulder. “There isn’t much we can do until labor is over and the baby is safely delivered. I—I can allow you to be in the room, if you’d like. Just—just in case.”

Tom nodded minuetly, and numbly followed Mrs. Tilvion into the room where Hermione’s screams came from. It was much louder in here. The mediwitches were nearly screaming at each other—trying to hear each other over Hermione’s pained howls, Mrs. Tilvion still the only calm witch in the room. He slowly walked towards the unoccupied side of the bed, sitting in a small chair beside it. “Hermione?” he whispered softly, and her eyes whipped towards him. Her eyes were watery and tearful as she bit back yet another scream, before a mediwitch came around with a pain killer potion meant specifically for labor patients. She swallowed it happily and, though the pain was still there, it wasn’t nearly as debilitating as it had been. “Hermione,” Tom repeated, taking her hand in his. She smiled softly at him, “I’m sure Mrs. Tilvion told you what the most likely outcome is.”

Tom’s eyes burned harshly, and he felt tears pouring down his face, though he didn’t quite care who saw. He couldn’t lose her. He _couldn’t._ “She needs you,” he stated simply through a cracking voice. Hermione giggled, holding his hand more firmly. “No,” she stated, “she needs one of us. She—she’ll be okay without me. Just be sure to keep Harry and Ginny around, they’ll help you if need be. She—she needs other people around her, Tom. She needs a family, a community of love, something you never got—” her pained yells came again, and the mediwitch who’d just given her the pain killer potion looked confused.

“Hermione,” Tom tried, “You aren’t like my mother. You—you’re powerful. You can survive this.”

Mrs. Tilvion ran some sort of diagnostic spell over Hermione, announcing that it was almost time to push. Hermione was 9cm dilated, so close to birthing their daughter. Hermione ignored his words completely, asking as calmly as she could, “What—what should we name her?”

“I—Hermione, please. I don’t want to lose you—”

“Tom.” Her voice was more forceful, but still quite hoarse from her pained screams and yelps. “What’s her name?”

Tom thought for a moment as Mrs. Tilvion nodded towards Hermione, meaning it was time to push. Push the baby out. He held onto Hermione’s hand more tightly, mulling over the question as he watched the only witch he ever loved push as if her life was on the line. And it was, but he’d rather have his witch than—

He shook that thought away, willing it to go away, before he remembered that he had Salazar Slytherin’s wand in his pocket. He’d hesitated on using it—but he knew the snakewood tree that grew on Ilvermorny was known for it’s medicinal properties. Maybe—just maybe—

Hermione’s grip on his hand hardened, if that was even possible, as Mrs. Tilvion instructed her to push. “Hold it for ten seconds, Hermione. Tom, count for her. Tom—”

“One, two, three—” _please don’t die on me, Hermione,_ he used his Legilimency to push his thoughts into her mind as he counted aloud, “four, five, six—”   _Her name is Isola Jean Riddle. Isola needs her mother, “_ seven, eight, nine, ten.”

Hermione released the breath she’d been holding become paler by the moment. Her vitals were going down, quickly. If he was going to act, he needed to do it soon. She smiled up at him, as Mrs. Tilvion observed her progress. “She’s crowning. A few more pushes, and she’ll be here.”

“That’s a wonderful name, Tom.” She reassured, her voice light and airy as if she were a ghost—as if she weren’t even _trying—_

_“_ Tom,” Mrs. Tilvion cut in again, looking pointedly at him, “count to ten again.”

Tom let out a shaky breath, “One, two, three, four—” _he took Salazar’s wand out of his robe pocket—“_ five, six, seven—” _he spoke to it in Parseltongue in his mind, hoping to reactivate the wand—“_ eight, nine, ten.” The wand’s tip lit up, but no one aside from him noticed. What to do with it now? He didn’t know many healing spells, but Hermione’s heart rate was dropping, along with her blood pressure. Her magical signature grew weaker and weaker, fainter—he could barely feel it. He latched onto it with his own, his grip on her hand tightening and grip on Salazar’s wand tightening as well—

“One more time, Tom.” Mrs. Tilvion directed, and Tom nodded, hopeful, _desperate_ that his plan would work. Maybe if he could lend her his magic while pointing Salazar’s wand at her, discreetly, of course, no one was really watching him—“One, two, three, four—” _he pointed the wand in the direction of their joined hands, his magic coursing through hers, willing the wand to heal her, somehow please just **heal her—“**_ Five, six, seven—” _Hermione was paying no mind to him, her eyes squeezed shut as she pushed their daughter out of her body, all of her willpower and magic combined in this one single moment—_ “Eight, nine—” _The wand began to glow a bright, undiscernible color, and he could only hope that it meant it was working, except her heart rate was still dropping and—“_ Ten.” He breathed, flicking the wand once more at their joined hands, feeling his magical signature holding on to hers, begging her not to let go— _please don’t let go—_

He heard the cry of a child—a baby, _their_ baby, their daughter. She was covered in blood and mucus and prenatal fluids, and the mediwitches quickly cleaned her up. They checked her vital signs, which were perfect. Hermione’s hadn’t dropped anymore—they were stagnant. He could only hope that meant something good.

Eventually, a small bundle, _their daughter,_ was brought to Hermione, who reached out to hold her with her free hand. Tom took his free hand, too, and couldn’t believe all of the emotions rushing through him. “Hello, Isola,” he started, voice hoarse, “I—I’m your father. This, she is your amazing mother.” Isola had a full head of black hair, eyes still shut, but he imagined they’d be brown like Hermione’s. He’d hopped they would be.

Hermione pulled her hand away from him to reveal a breast, likely to feed Isola, to which Isola latched immediately. As soon as Hermione pulled her hand away, her vitals started dropping. Mrs. Tilvion watched, a sad expression upon her face. “Tom,” she started knowingly, staring at the wand in his hand, “if you have a plan, now is the time, my dear.”

“I don’t—” his eyes began to burn as he watched his intended feed their daughter, the life slowly draining from her. Her skin was paling even more, her jaw slacked, her head beginning to fall backwards, her heart rate in the 30s—almost—

Almost dead. The only idea that came to mind—the one thing he hadn’t tried—

He took hold of Hermione’s hand, the one that was holding Isola, and inched his thumb into Isola’s tiny hand. He pointed his wand at their hands, concentrating on all three magical signatures. Maybe—maybe if both he and Isola were to pull her magical signature _back—_ keep her from going into the realm of the dead—then _maybe—_

Isola’s eyes opened then, staring up at Hermione. He had been wrong. Her eyes weren’t like Hermione’s. They were a vibrant green, unlike his deep jade eyes. He wondered briefly—but he didn’t have time, he had to save—

It was then that he felt it. It wasn’t his signature, or Hermione’s, but _Isola_ ’s signature who pulled Hermione’s signature towards her, and as she did, Hermione’s vital signs began to go up, and she began to regain full consciousness as she’d damn near been unconscious, and she fully registered the fact that she was holding her baby, _their_ baby, in her arms.

Mrs. Tilvion smiled at the sight, leaving the small family to their own for a while after ensuring Hermione was fine.

“What—what did you do, Tom?” Hermione asked softly, eyes still trained on Isola, who cooed at her mother’s voice.

Tom swallowed harshly, “I—I don’t know what happened. All I know is I used Salazar’s wand, and I pulled on your signature with my own. I was able to hold you, but I couldn’t bring you back. And then after _Isola_ was handed to you—I—I held her, or, she held my thumb, and I pointed the wand at the three of our intertwined hands. It— _I swear_ to Merlin, Hermione. I tried. I really did, but it wasn’t me. It—it was _her.”_

He stared down at his daughter with an admiration he couldn’t deny. His smile was genuine, and he felt a warmth build up in his chest, overwhelming him to the point of tears. “I—what am I feeling, Hermione?” he asked her softly.

Hermione, for the first time in the past couple of hours, looked at Tom. His face was blushed, eyes teary, as he stared down at Isola. He had a look of admiration, of— _pure_ love, in his eyes.

“Love, Tom,” she answered lightly, smiling up at him as he looked at her with confusion. “You’re feeling _love.”_

In that moment, Hermione was no longer frightened that Tom would use Isola to further his plans… because she saw the love in his eyes for her. In that moment, Hermione was no longer afraid of what he may do with Slytherin’s wand… because he had used it, albeit selfishly, to save her, to give Isola the mother she deserved, in his own words. In that moment, all doubt washed away—because Tom finally knew what it felt like to _love_ someone; what selfless, pure, _love_ was.

In that moment, Hermione decided that nothing, absolutely _nothing,_ could change someone the way a child could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the ending! Again, likely the most sappy, sweet Tomione you'll ever get from me. I may start a series detailing Isola's growth as somewhat of a sequel, but it won't be something updated on a schedule, it will be updated as I think of prompts for it. If you have any ideas, please do leave them in the comments. 
> 
> Aside from that, leave your thoughts on the final chapter in the comments! I'd love to know your thoughts! 
> 
> mulbr


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